/26'9 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


U      r 


10 


AUTUMN   DREAMS. 


BY 

CHIQUITA. 


"  TRUTH  is  of  the  essence  of  poetry,  as  well  as  of  science.  But  in  the  one 
case,  the  truth  is  always  enveloped  in  form ;  in  the  other,  it  is  eliminated 
from  foim.  Science  gives  you  truth  in  algebraic  formula;  poetry  gives  you 
truth  in  the  dance  of  the  stars." — BAYNE. 


NEW    YORK: 
D.    APPLETON    &    COMPANY, 

90,  92    &   94    GRAND    STREET. 
1870. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by 

D.  APPLETON  &  CO., 
in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


PS 


PREFACE. 


ERRATA. 

On  page  18,  fourth  line,  for  their,  read  dim. 
On  page  19,  third  line,  for  trains,  read  train. 
On  page  52,  twelfth  line,  for  sweet,  read  sweep. 

«  "         '•  "        light,  read  like. 

On  page  98,  second  line,  for  griefs,  read  grief. 


the  lips. 

A  woman  must  be  "lifted  out  of  herself," 
to  write  in  a  manner  that  will  charm.  It  would 
have  been  a  difficult  task,  in  these  two  years  of 
domestic  trials,  of  changes,  and  duties,  occurring 
to  those  who  are  not  wealthy,  to  have  forgotten 
often  the  stern  realities  of  life. 


1 03591 8 


PS 


PREFACE. 


OFTENTIMES  it  happens  that  those  who 
have  the  fullest  enjoyment  which  poetic  feeling 
affords,  are  bitterly  disappointed  in  themselves 
when  they  venture  to  lisp  in  numbers  the 
sweet  feeling  which  has  so  enlarged  and  ele 
vated  their  souls  ;  and  that  which  so  rilled  the 
soul,  when  written,  seems  but  to  have  touched 
the  lips. 

A  woman  must  be  "lifted  out  of  herself," 
to  write  in  a  manner  that  will  charm.  It  would 
have  been  a  difficult  task,  in  these  two  years  of 
domestic  trials,  of  changes,  and  duties,  occurring 
to  those  who  are  not  wealthy,  to  have  forgotten 
often  the  stern  realities  of  life. 


1 0-359  j  8 


6  PREFACE. 

bouquet  one  bud  of  beauty,  its  fragrance  will 
cause  a  kindly  feeling  for  the  author. 
Respectfully, 

EPPIE  BOWDRE  CASTLEN. 

MACON,  GA.,  April,  1870. 


CO  NTENTS. 


PAGE 

FIFTEEN       ..........      9 

Autumn  Days    ........  12 

We  Two       .  i  .  .  .  .  .  .14 

"Angels'  Flowers"       .  .  ......  16 

Evening       .  ...  .  .  .  .  .18 

"  Homage  I  do  not  seek  "......  19 

Earth's  Beauty         .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .20 

The  Deluge       ........  93 

To  a  Beautiful  Young  Friend         .  .  .  .  .•  .     26 

Come  back !        .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .37 

"  O  Blessed  Home ! "          .  .  .  .  .  .  .28 

Sweep,  O  Sea !  .......  32 

Why  ...  .  .33 

To  my  Little  Daughter  ......  34 

Night 35 

The  Southern  Forest  Flower    ......  37 

Rain  at  Night          ........     38 

Lines  to  my  Mother !     .  .  .  .  .  .  .40 

The  Dead  Infant     ........     42 

Reflections          ........  43 

Lines  respectfully  inscribed  to  Miss  Sally  W.,  of  Augusta,  Ga.  .     45 

Decorating  the  Graves  of  our  Dead  on  the  26th  of  April        .  .  47 

Lines  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  -49 

Lines  to  "  a  Friend  "    .  .  .  .  .  .  .50 

"  One  of  these  Days "         .  .  .  .  .  .  .5* 

A  Scene  ........  52 


CONTENTS. 


Hope  ....  .  .     54 

The  Valley  of  the  Past  ......  55 

My  Faded  Flowers  .  .  .  .  .  .  -58 

To  my  Sweet  Juliette  ....  •  •  59 

Ye  know  not  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .61 

Memnon  ........  62 

To  Myra      .....  ...     63 

O  Leaves  ........          65 

Absence        .........     66 

In  Dreams  ........  68 

Desolate        .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .69 

Thorns  ........  71 

Sighing  for  Thee      .  .  .  .  .  .  .  -72 

To  Mary 73 

All  is  dreary  now       .  .  .  .  .  .  .  -74 

"  Is  it  a  Sin  to  love  Thee  ?"       ......  75 

Lines  .........     77 

Lines        .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  -79 

Nearer  Home  ........     80 

"Chiquita"          .  .  .  .  .  •  .81 

A  Petition     .........     83 

To  "Chiquita"  .......  85 

To  Eppie,  of  Macon  .  .  .  .  .  .  .86 

Lines      ......  88 

Only  a  Tear  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .89 

To  E .  .  .  .  .  .  .  90 

Sweet  Summer  Night         .  .  .  .  .  .  91 

To  E.,  on  gazing  at  her  Portrait          .....  93 

To  Chiquita  ........     95 

Our  Dead  .  .  .  .  .  .  97 

Burlington  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  -99 

To  my  Dear  Little  Boys,  Eddie  and  Johnnie  .  .  .          100 

Stanzas  to  Chiquita  .......   101 

To  my  Grandmother— on  her  Seventy-second  Birthday        .  .          102 

To  Leola      .........  103 

Lines  to  the  Memory  of  General  Cobb  ....          104 

Lebanon        .........  105 

To  Tangetta  .  .  .  .  .  .  .         107 


AUTUMN    DREAMS. 


FIFTEEN  ! 

JIFTEEN  to-day  !     Sweet  Mother,  once  again 

I  come  to  ask  your  blessing  and  your  prayer. 
Upon  my  moisten'd  eyelids  let  your  lips, 
Dear  Mother,  softly  rest ;  while  through  them  comes 
The  faint,  low  breathing  of  your  sweet  words,  kiss 
Away  these  rising  tears,  and  pray  that  I 
This  hour  so  fraught  with  Hope  may  ne'er  forget. 
Your  blessing  will  e'er  bloom  like  roses  sweet 
Upon  the  grave  of  this  fair,  fleeting  Time — 
And  ne'er  again  will  I  'twixt  mountains  stand 
Dismayed,  uncertain — rocks  and  winds  before ; 
But  on  the  gleaming  top,  in  all  the  strength 
Of  Womanhood,  will  I,  down  Childhood's  green, 
Fresh  valley,  cast  my  last  and  ling'ring  look. 
Sweet  Vale,  so  full  of  thrilling  beauty — wild, 
Ethereal  melody — thy  gates  are  closed  ! 


io  FIFTEEN! 

No  more  upon  thy  beds  of  violets 
Or  mossy  banks,  when  wearied  from  the  race 
With  wayward,  sporting  Zephyrus,  shall  I 
E'er  lay  me  down — nor  wander  in  thy  fields 
With  joyous  Flora,  whose  unfading  crown, 
And  ever  blooming  cheek,  bold  lovers  won. 
Her  pencil  dipped  in  rosy  hues  of  Heav'n, 
No  more  shall  paint  the  Rose's  velvet  cheek. 
No  more  from  her  bright  coronet  shall  fall 
Sweet  odors  o'er  the  lily's  snowy  brow. 
No  longer  seated  under  leafy  trees, 
Fast  by  the  margin  of  the  silver  stream 
Where  sported  Dryads  with  their  floating  hair, 
Shall  I  e'er  be — nor  o'er  the  mist-wreath'd  hills 
Shall  hail  Aurora's  rosy  car  and  steeds, 
Swift  driving  through  the  purple  Morn,  and  o'er 
The  verdant  valley  scattering  dew  and  flowers. 

No,  no  !  now  sail  I  on  the  ruffled  sea 
Of  Life — my  "  gate  of  fancy  "  closed  !     No  more 
To  sport  with  playful  Xereids,  or  think 
Again  upon  wild  Neptune  as  I  sail ; 
Nor  in  the  stormy  blast  e'er  call  upon 
Old  ^Eolus  again — and  woman-like 
I  now  must  turn  from  worshipp'd  idols — leave 
My  choicest  pleasures — bow  to  other  shrines. 
Ah,  Mother  !  pray  the  shining  wreaths  around 
Young  Hope's  fair  head  may  never  fade  or  die. 


FIFTEEN!  II 

My  Child !  look  out  upon  the  day — 'tis  clear 

And  bright — of  patient  waiting  speaks  it,  and 

Of  cheerful  trust.     Of  patient  waiting  for 

The  golden  harvest.     Does  it  brighten,  Child, 

Into  Hope's  radiant  light  ?     Nay — steady,  calm 

It  is — fit  type,  methinks,  of  woman's  life. 

Look  up  with  fortitude  to  future  days — 

For  us  there  is  a  sphere  of  duty,  plain  ; 

To  it  with  upright  heart  and  quiet  mien, 

Strive,  Child,  to  go.     Tho'  happiness  is  plucked 

From  thy  young  heart,  and  sad  wounds  made  which 

cling 

Fast  to  its  fibres,  still  thy  murmurings, 
And  yield — for  He  will  temper  winds  for  thee, 
And  His  own  hand  of  comfort  will  be  laid 
In  loving  kindness  on  that  troubled  heart. 
If  lonely,  faint,  and  burdened  by  the  way, 
The  journey  is  not  long,  and  wayside  flow'rs 
By  hands  of  friendship  proffer'd  will  be  sweet, 
And  bright,  and  fadeless — and  give  joy  to  thee. 
Life  is  not  all  a  dancing  light — a  morn 
In  May.     Soft  mellow  rays  of  evening  steal 
Upon  us  ;  but  the  sun  is  still  the  same, 
And  Life  is  after  all  a  dim,  dim  dream. 


A  UTUMN  DA  YS. 

AUTUMN   DAYS. 

|HE    melancholy  days  are  come — the  saddest 

of  the  year !  " 
The   berries  have  to  scarlet  turned;    and  bare,  and 

brown,  and  sere, 
Hard-beaten  by   the   fretful    rain,    the  harvest   fields 

appear. 

Unfolded   lie  the  grand  and  gorgeous  glories  of  the 

wood ! 
And  on  the  hill-side,  where  the  blue-eyed   flow'rs  in 

beauty  stood, 
The   Autumn-hued  vines  lowly  bend,   to  meet  winds 

strong  and  rude. 

Like  Summer  rain  the  golden  leaves  in  showers  patter 

down, 
Adorning    gnarl'd   and   knotted   roots    with   Nature's 

brilliant  crown — 
Not  heeding  moans,  nor  winds,  nor  storms  that  tell  of 

Winter's  frown. 

Or  on  the  clear,  bright  bosom  of  the  ever-murmuring 

stream, 
They  softly  lie,  and  kiss  with  crimson  lips  the  waves 

that  gleam, 
And  dance,  and  rise,  and  swell,  and  tremble  'neath 

the  Moon's  pale  beam. 


AUTUMN  DAYS,  13 

Upon  projecting,  barren  rock?,  midst  mountain  wilds 

its  home, 
The  fierce,   defensive,   bristling  Pine,   with  stiff  and 

spiral  form, 
In  scanty  dress  a  Guardian  stands,  and  proudly  meets 

the  storm. 

And  patriot  Chief,  thou  grand  old  Oak,  thou  Monarch 

brave  and  true  ! 
How  much  of  human  feeling  (since  from  acorns  small 

you  grew) 
Has    ebbed  and  flowed  1 — How  much  of   grandeur, 

space  and  time,  seem  you  ! 

The  heart  has  felt  the  beauty  of  the  Summer  woods  — 

of  gales 
That  waved  the  leaves  and  blossoms,  blushing  in  the 

lowly  dales, 
And  these  sweet,   thornless  treasures,   lost,    the  sad 

heart  still  bewails. 

A  morn  of  beauty  soon  will  rise !    nor  over  Summer's 

bier, 
Nor  folded,  faded  petals,  shall  we  drop  the  hopeless 

tear. 
Sweet  flow'rs!  bright  days  will  come  again — the 

gladdest  of  the  year. 


2 


14  WE    TWO. 


WE  TWO. 

jjALKING  we  two — heart  whispering  to  heart — 

And    through    the    bright,    bright    meadows 
pranked  with  flow'rs, 

The  insects  hummed  in  their  sweet  unknown  tongues, 
And  trilling  birds  were  loving  'way  the  hours. 

Walking  we  two— hand  fondly  clasped  in  hand — 
Treading  at  every  step  the  rich  perfume 

P'rom  rainbow-tinted  leaves  ;  nor  heeded  we 

Their  crushed  and  bruised  heads — their  early  doom. 

What  if  they  sighed  and  pined — these  silken  flow'rs. 

No  sweet,  fresh,  spell  of  life  to  us  could  come ; 
We  had  been  crushed,  and  bruised,  and  broken  too — 

The  light  been  driven  from  our  heart's  sweet  home. 

The  light !  not  all — for,  like  the  murmur  faint 
From  downy  wing  of  some  lone  wood-land  bird, 

Comes  his  low  whispered  "  Darling,  we  can  hope  " — 
All  is  not  darkness — for  my  heart  has  heard. 

Yes,  yes,  my  heart  has  heard  and  taken  in 
The  truth,  the  precious  truth — and  soon  will  close 

And  fold  it  in,  as  dew-drops  bright  and  pure 
Are  folded  to  the  bosom  of  the  rose. 


WE    TWO.  15 

Again  his  whispered  words — when  sadly  I 

Had  said,  "  Sweet,  I  have  trod  upon  your  heart — 

Yea,  trod  and  crushed  out  all  its  sweet  perfume, 
And  you  have  thought  I  calmly  sent  the  dart. 

"  And  calm  and  silent,  as  when  filled  a  soul 
With  fears — you  passed  beneath  the  chast'ning  rod, 

The  timid  quiver  of  your  lips  told  well 

How  withered  your  heart-flowers  I  had  trod. 

"  How  crushed  and  bleeding  that  warm  heart,  tho'  lips 
Else  whispered  to  the  busy  world — the  light 

Within  your  eye  had  faded — bitterness 

Had  choked  up  Hope's  sweet  spring — and  all  was 
night." 

Reply  came — "No,  in  sight  of  God,  while  'neath 
His  broad,  bright  canopy  we  walk  and  wait, 

A  part  of  Him  I  think  you,  Darling,  nor 

Has  aught  e'er  trod  upon  my  heart  but  Fate. 

"  Like  '  Morn  from  Memnon,'  you  can  ever  draw 
From  my  closed  lips  the  softest  tones  of  love." 

We  sadly  watched  the  westering  of  the  sun, 
Nor  looked  I  in  his  eyes  his  words  to  prove. 

Too  well  I  knew  the  quiver  on  his  lip — 

Too  well  his  heart,  surcharged,  would  soon  run  o'er  ; 


16  " ANGEL 'S  FLOWERS." 

I  felt  his  trembling — knew  too  well  the  wealth 
Of  his  pure  love,  which  made  us  both  so  poor. 

Again — "  Sweet  thoughts  of  what  you  yet  may  be 
Are  mine — my  own,  my  wife — I  calmly  wait. 

A  part  of  Him  I  think  you,  Darling,  nor 

Has  aught  e'er  trod  upon  my  heart  but  Fate." 


A  long,  deep,  river — and  a  valley  dark 

With  shadows — eyes  too  sad  and  dim  to  see. 

Too  wide  the  stream — our  hands  can  never  meet ; 
Pulseless  the  heart,  once  full  of  love  for  me. 

Fate  has  trod  on  us — breaking  heart  and  hand  ! 

From  out  her  sick'ning  grasp  we  yet  shall  rise — 
"  My  own — my  wife  ?  "      Yes,  when  we  'wake  again, 

Beholding  beauties  of  a  Paradise  ! 


"ANGELS'  FLOWERS." 

My  little  girl,  three  years  old,  asked  me  to-night  if  the  stars  were  the 
A  ngels'  Flowers. 

|HE  Angels'  Flowers  !  my  Darling,  thinkest  thou 

Yon  starred  Firmament  a  meadow  bright, 
Upon  whose  jeweled  bosom — smiling  brow — 
Bloom  flowers  rare  fore'er  in  beauty's  light? 


"ANGEL'S  FLOWERS."  17 

Look  up  through  dim  cloud-curtains,  hanging  low — 
While  'neath  this  dome  of  hollow  boughs  we  sit, 

And  watch  yon  sky — your  meadow — spangled  o'er — 
And  see  our  bower,  your  tiny  buds  have  lit. 

The  waters  glisten,  Darling,  'neath  their  smile, 
And  leap,  and  chime  the  sweetest  melody. 

Yon  folds  of  mist  and  cloud  grow  gorgeous  while 
Your  buds  flash  into  visibility. 

Each  Earthly  blossom  sparkles  'neath  the  light 
Your  smiling,  peeping  flowers  shed  ;    and  throws 

Back  quivering  kisses  on  the  winds  of  Night — 
Our  blue  forget-me-not — our  blushing  rose. 

Sweet,  guileless  child,  O  for  thine  eyes  of  Faith  1 
To  see  with  thee  the  Angels'  fadeless  flow'rs, 

To  walk  with  thee  thy  beauty-woven  path, 
To  feel  again  the  trust  that  once  was  ours. 

Time-worn  and  dim  the  gaze  we  fix  on  High — 

And  on  the  troubled  Ocean  of  our  life, 
Faith's  wreck  is  sailing — Hope,  the  Pilot,  nigh, 

But  weak  and  wearied  with  the  storm  and  strife. 


18  EVENING. 


EVENING. 


WE  can  appease  the  yearnings  of  the  heart,  and  drive  away  reflection 
—nay,  we  can  live  without  sympathy,  until  evening  steals  around  our  path 
and  tells  us  with  a  voice  which  makes  itself  be  heard,  that  we  are  alone. - 
MRS.  ELLIS. 


|OW  comes  still  evening  on,"  and  charming  is 

Its  sweet  repose — delicious,  silent,  calm  ! 
Light  fades  around  us  like  our  own  sweet  hopes — 
Their  shadows  with  their  strange,  mysterious  pow'r, 
Blend  with  the  gently  sinking,  dying  light, 
As  Faith,  thin,  careworn,  and  neglected,  blends 
Her  tranquillizing  beauty  still  with  Hope's 
Own  fading,  hectic  flush.     The  stillness  lulls 
The  passion  in  our  hearts — cares  seem  to  sleep — 
And  in  this  soft,  sweet,  blushing  hour,  old 
And  tender  memories  will  fall  upon 
Our  saddened  hearts,  and  melt  us  unto  tears. 
Some  half-forgotten  air — the  perfume  of 
Some  fav'rite  flow'r,  brings  back  to  us  a  flood 
Of  recollection — purifies  the  soul ; 
New  life  is  given  to  pure  impulses — great 
And  noble  aspirations — opened  paths 
Of  life  and  beauty — and  the  prisoned  soul 
Dreams  sweetly  on  of  freedom  and  delight ! 
.  .  .  And  Nature's  bosom  is  scarce  throbbing  now — 
The  heated  race  is  o'er — thrown  off  the  red 
And  glaring  raiment.     Robed  in  pure,  white  mist, 


"HOMAGE  I  DO  NOT  SEEK."  19 

With  dusky,  shadowy  veil  she  stands — and  'waits 

The  soft  gale's  perfumed  kiss — for  soon  her  robes 

Of  royalty,  of  midnight  hue,  and  trains 

Of  light  and  glory,  puts  she  on,  and  pins 

With   Heaven's   own  sparkling  gems  these  sweeping 

robes 

Of  black.     Soon  will  her  fair  brow  glisten  'neath 
The  radiant  light  of  that  bright  coronet — 
And  gray-winged  evening  shall  give  way  to  night. 


May  ambition  burn  in  your  young  heart,  and  give  to  thought  and  word 
"  the  aspiring  and  the  radiant  hue  of  fire." 

[Extract  from  a  friend's  letter.] 

|OMAGE  I  do  not  seek,  for  well  you  know 

My  simple  rhymes  are  writ  in  lonely  hours, 
When  shine  few  stars  o'er  life's  dark  way — when  need 
A  tender,  pruning  hand,  my  heart's  wild  flowers. 

'Tis  true  my  soul  is  often  filled  with  wild, 
Unuttered,  trancing  songs  of  beauty — ring 

Shivers  of  melody  upon  my  ears  ; 

But  of  this  thrilling  joy  I  cannot  sing. 

I  do  not  write  for  fame — 'tis  joy  enough 

If  I  have  coaxed  the  shadowy,  brooding  wings 


20  EARTH'S  BEAUTY. 

Of  Sorrow  to  pass  gently  o'er  a  heart 

Which  else  would  sadly  feel  the  shade  she  flings. 

Nor  yet  for  praise — my  spirit  loves  to  pour 
Itself  out  into  song.  Though  music  lives 

Not  in  its  echoes — beauty  finds  no  home — 
My  spirit  worships  all  that  Nature  gives. 

Yea,  worships  all — the  gems  of  Winter — cold 

And  heartless  Winter — young  and  joyous  Spring — 

The  Summer,  gambolling  o'er  scented  flow'rs — 
Of  all  that  Nature  gives,  my  soul  would  sing. 

Then  do  not  deem  my  rude  and  simple  lays 
Are  offered  at  the  throne  of  Science — given 

They  only  to  some  lonely  pilgrim — sung 

Oft  when  the  soul  would  dream  of  love  and  Heaven, 


EARTH'S  BEAUTY! 
|hJ»fjj|LONE,    alone,    to-night!      Beneath   the    starry 

Beneath  the  glist'ning,  jewelled  canopy  of  Heaven. 
The  sad  soul  whispers,  Earth  hath  too  much  light  to 

die, 
And  into  this  sweet  light  the  burdened  soul  is  driven. 


EARTH'S  BEAUTY.  21 

Aye,  too  much  light  to  die !  Earth  breaks  into  glad  smiles, 
Though  under  Cypress  shadows  we  may  weep  at  even ; 

The  "  timid  trembling  of  the  purple  Dawn"  soon  wiles 
Away  these  star-shaped  shadows  falling  night  has 
given. 

The  golden  languor,  trance-like  joy  of  summer's  day — 
Delicious,  dreamy,  calm — still  hush  the  heart's  wild 

beating ; 

Sweet  odors  climbing  heavenward,  trailng  branches  stay, 
And  dark,  low,  waving  foliage,  fragrant  waters  meet 
ing. 

Through  curling,  wreathing   mist   of  happy  by-gone 

years, 

Wild  floods  of  music,  Nature  from  her  lyre  is  shaking; 
This  rich  and  thrilling  harmony  of  love  brings  tears — 
This  slumb'ring  heart  to  Earth's  new  beauty  is  awak 
ing. 

Now  breaks  the  light  upon  the  mountain's  golden  brow  ! 

Bright  stars  before  th'  ascending,  radiant  day  expir 
ing— 
Like  guardian  angels  guiding  lonely  steps,  till  now 

Before  th'  unfolding  gates  of  Morn  they  smile  retiring. 

Yes,  Earth  hath  too  much  light  to  die !  In  midnight  grief 
The  soul  sees  not  the   gorgeous  beauties  o'er  her 
trailing ; 


22  THE  DELUGE. 

Too  low  and  faint  its  flick'ring  dream-light — far  too  brief! 
And  Nature's  leaping,  quiv'ring  melody — but  wailing. 

Low  drop  the  crimson"  bells  beneath  the  blushing  sky  ! 

To  smiling  waves  the  Morn  her  bridal  kiss  has  given  ; 
The  glad  soul  whispers,  Earth  hath  too  much  light  to  die, 

And  into  this  sweet  light  the  trembling  soul  is  driven. 


THE   DELUGE. 

|HAT  hast  thou  seen,  Mount  Ararat — what  felt  ? 
Ah !  couldst  thou  speak,  the  traveller,  dumb 
with  awe 

And  trembling  with  alarm,  shouldst  pause  and  hear, 
At  thy  grand  base,  in  thundering  tones,  of  that 
Far-distant  time  when  God  displayed  His  power, 
His  wondrous  power,  His  rightful  vengeance,  and 
Made  thee,  thou  mighty  summit,  sacred  first 
In  human  history  ; — thy  head  to  look 
Far  o'er  the  waters  down  upon  all  else — 
All  coming  generations  to  the  end, 
Yea,  to  the  end  of  time. 

Thy  peaks  did  gleam 

And  glitter  as  the  sunbeams  o'er  them  danced — 
Thy  face  o'erlooked  a  smiling,  tranquil  sea ; 


THE  DELUGE. 

And  though  near  by  there  lay  a  desert  hot 

And  sterile,  thy  white,  snowy  brow  felt  not 

The  scorching  breath  that  o'er  its  bosom  swept. 

Serene  all  Nature  seemed — the  fields  were  dressed 

In  their  bright  holiday  apparel — birds 

Were  building  nests  and  hunting  cooing  mates — 

The  grazing  herd  rejoiced  in  sweet,  fresh  grass — 

The  clear,  blue  sky  showed  not  a  speck — and  men 

And  women  ate  and  drank,  and  gave  themselves 

To  pleasure,  marrying,  and  feasts ;  nor  cared 

They  aught  for  that  deep,  warning  voice — save  one, 

Whose  aged  head  was  whitened  by  the  frosts 

And  cares  of  six  long  centuries.     While  o'er 

Him  floated  perfumed  breezes,  and  the  sound 

Of  busy  life  was  falling  on  his  ear, 

By  faith  alone  he  laid  the  first  great  beam 

Of  that  strange  structure,  which  he  knew  would  sail 

And  ride  in  safety  o'er  the  troubled  deep. 

And  now,  his  task  well  done,  he  kindly  bade 

His  chosen  ones  to  enter  in  ;  the  door 

He  closed  upon  a  jeering,  scoffing  world, 

And  sat  him  calmly  down  to  wait  in  faith 

The  issue — God's  own  time  ; — not  weakened  yet 

That  faith  when  out  came  peeping  starlets,  and 

All  Nature  still  wore  peaceful  smiles — nor  yet 

When  morning  rose  in  undimmed  splendor,  and 

The  laugh  and  jest  were  heard  hard  by,  for  he 

Had  rested  on  the  strength  of  God's  own  word. 

Thy  peaks  still  glittered,  Mount,  and  at  thy  foot 


24  THE  DELUGE. 

The  sea  lay  smiling  tranquilly — and  passed 
Were  seven  prayerful  days  since,  deep  within 
This  holy  resting-place,  had  Noah  given, 
On  bended  knee,  himself  up  to  his  God. 

A  tiny,  floating  cloud  !  no  larger  than 
His  own  rough  hand.     The  sky  is  soon  o'ercast ! 
The  rain  descends  ! — a  welcome  show'r  to  those 
Of  little  faith — to  him  the  tidings  sure 
Of  that  convulsion  which  should  drown  the  world. 
Days  pass! — and  faster,  fiercer,  falls  the  rain. 
The  tiny  streams  are  swelling,  surging  seas, 
Upon  whose  maddened  bosoms  wealth  and  life 
Alike  are  borne  to  death.     Grim  Famine  stalks 
Abroad,  and  Desolation  fills  the  land. 

Days  pass  !  and  from  the  blackened  cloud  still  pours 
This  endless  water-sheet.     No  longer  stirs 
From  his  shut  door  the  man  of  pleasure,  and 
The  laboring  peasant  seeks  the  hills  around 
For  safety  from  the  threat'ning  waves.     Yet  still 
The  angry  waters  rise  and  roar,  and  shake 
The  Earth's  foundations  with  their  violence, 
Till,  on  the  cold  and  black  and  cruel  waves 
A  drifting  mass  of  human  flesh  is  seen. 
Fierce  struggles,  then,  for  life  !  as  thund'ring  high 
The  mad,  devouring  waves  are  lapping  up 
Each  struggling,  climbing  wretch,  and  swelling  high 
In  pride  and  anger  as  each  victim  falls, 
Crazed,  crushed,  and  hopeless,  in  their  mighty  and 
Remorseless  grasp — and  rushing  wildly  on 


THE  DELUGE.  25 

Still  higher,  higher ! — wrap,  and  sweep  from  off 
The  reeling,  tottering  house-tops,  those  who  seek 
Dismayed  this  place  of  safety,  hoping  yet 
T'  escape  the  wrath  of  God.     The  weak  are  hurl'd 
From  off  their  point  of  refuge  by  the  strong, 
Into  the  seething,  surging  sea  below. 
The  mother's  sharp,  shrill  cry  of  agony 
Is  heard,  as  though  the  sweeping  waters  she, 
White,  wet  and  chilled,  is  walking,  clutching  at 
The  floating,  flying  wrecks,  and  fighting  back 
With  bare,  imploring  arms  the  coming  Death — 
Despairing,  frenzied,  holding  high  above 
Her  dripping  head  her  crowing  infant  child ; 
Or,  fleeing  to  the  mountain-tops,  she  checks 
With  her  vehement  cries  and  prayers  its  smiles. 
"  The  fountains  of  the  deep  are  broken  up  !  " 
Still  higher  rise  the  swift  and  fearful  waves, 
Till  o'er  the  groaning,  trembling  Earth  they  sweep 
And  hide  forevermore  each  scene  of  shame, 
Brutality,  and  vice. 

Amid  the  storm, 

The  black  and  fearful  midnight  that  had  wrapp'd 
The  frenzied  Earth,  as  calm  as  if  in  sleep, 
Beat  one  true  heart ;  no  fear  had  overthrown 
His  sweet,  abiding  faith — no  tremor  passed 
O'er  his  brave  heart,  as  on  the  shoreless  deep 
And  over  buried  mountains  rode  his  lone 
And  helmless  ark.     His  voice  was  lifted  up 
In  prayer  ;   and  heaving,  rolling  billows,  nor 


26         TO  A   BEAUTIFUL    YOUNG   FRIEND. 

The  ocean's  angry  voice  e'er  dimmed  the  light 
Of  faith ;    still  tranquil  as  a  babe  asleep 
Upon  its  mother's  breast,  he  laid  him  down 
To  wait  the  coming  calm. 

And  when  upon 

Mount  Ararat  he  stood  and  viewed,  with  those 
He  loved,  the  changed  and  solitary  Earth, 
He  built  thereon  an  altar,  tearful  knelt, 
And  "lifted  up  his  voice  again  in  prayer," 
And  soon  the  flame  of  this  new  sacrifice 
Arose  from  that  lone  mountain  top  and  bore 
His  prayer  to  Heaven  ! 

And  lo  !  God's  signet  ring, 
Grand  emblem  of  a  sacred  promise  and 
Undying  warrant  of  His  covenant, 
Appeared  and  arched  the  aged  man  of  God! 


TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  YOUNG  FRIEND. 

j]ORDS  cannot  tell  how  beautiful  thou  art, 

How  sweet  the  calmness  of  thy  soft,  dark  eye- 
Stars  of  a  pure,  young  twilight !     In  thy  hair, 
Thy  shining  hair,  a  thousand  glories  lie. 

Thine  is  an  ever-dancing  shape — a  form 
Of  grace  a  houri  maid  were  proud  to  wear ; 

Thy  face  a  soul  of  passion — but  thy  heart 
From  ev'ry  shade  of  passion  wholly  clear. 


COME  BACK!  27 

Too  pure  thou  seemest  with  thy  gentle  way. 

•Sure,  Sorrow's  wings  will  never  be  unfurled ; 
Yet,  say  they,  Pain  and  Sorrow  come  to  all — 

And  Maiden,  'tis  a  weary,  weary  world. 

"  At  deep  scars  jest  they  who  have  known  no  wounds." 
To  move  and  win  young  hearts  are  arrows  hurled 

Of  poisoned  sweetness,  in  unguarded  hours — 
Ah  Maiden  !  tis  a  weary,  weary  world. 

When  swears  man  by  the  glory  of  thine  eyes — 
Thy  hair — thy  rounded  form  of  life  and  light ; 

By  ev'ry  grace —  by  ev'ry  charm  declares 
You  ever  Queen — and  he  thine  own  true  Knight : 

Oh,  Maiden,  at  these  empty  vows  of  love, 

Let  thy  red,  pouting  lip  with  scorn  be  curled ; 

A  moment's  ornament  they  think  you — and 
'Tis  they  who  make  a  weary,  weary  world. 


COME  BACK! 

jOME  back,  O  days,  O  long  lost,  jewelled  hours, 
That  through  these  faded  years  can  never  fling 
O'er  memory's  azure  sky  a  cloud,  but  seems 
The  passing  shadow  of  an  Angel's  wing. 
Come  back,  O  days ! 


28  "O,    BLESSED  HOME!" 

Return,  O  days,  with  all  your  golden  store, 

Ere,  "whitening  in  the  sun,"  Love's  harvest  lay; 

Come  back,  O  busy  feet,  O  buoyant  hearts ; 
Bright,  sunny  hours  of  youth,  fade  not  away. 
Fade  not,  O  daysJ 

O  melodies — O  hours  of  glory,  come, 

With  gentle  mem'ries  soothe  Life's  beaten  way ; 

Come  with  your  garlands  wove  of  Hope's  fair  flowers,. 
Ere  in  the  dust  their  vivid  beauty  lay. 
Be  mine,  O  days  ! 


"Glorious  things  are  spoken  of  Thee,  O  City  of  God!" — Psalm  Ixxxvii.  3. 

Respectfully  inscribed  to  Rev.  Dr.  Wills,  whose  last  Sabbath  Sermon 
•was from  the  above  beautiful  Words. 

blessed  Home  !  much  loveth  God  thy  gates — 
Thy  holy  mountain-paths,  where  Righteousness 
And  Peace  each  other  ever  kiss.     Mercy 
And  Truth  together  meet,  and  Glory  dwells 
In  all  thy  spotless  land  for  evermore. 
In  thee  the  Church  triumphant  firmly  stands, 
A  rock  immovable  ! — nor  'gainst  it  shall 
The  gates  of  Hell  prevail ;  for  He  hath  said 
His  Christ  and  He  this  Kingdom  loveth  well, 
And  in  it  they  shall  reign  fore'er  and  e'er. 


"O  BLESSED  HOME!"  29 

Mountains  of  power  and  beauty  girdle  thee  ! 
Aye,  even  as  Jerusalem  of  old. 
And  on  thy  deep  foundations  planted  He 
The  everlasting  covenant — and  God 
The  Son  redeemed  it  with  His  precious  blood, 
And  on  the  palm  of  His  own  hand  engraved 
He  it.   He  thy  defence  is,  Zion,  by  His  love, 
Omnipotence,  and  truth.     "  Fair  as  the  moon, 
Clear  as  the  sun,"  to-day  thou'rt  marching  forth, 
While  glories  of  the  Earth,  as  morning  cloud 
And  early  dew,  swift  pass  away.     Shinest 
Thou  "as  Eastern  gold,"  O  Zion,  city 
Of  our  God,  who  in  thy  midst  is  mighty 
And  whose  promise  shall  not  fail  for  e'er. 
O  Zion  !  tears  thou  oft  hast  had,  as  well 
As  raptures — suffering  as  well  as  joy, 
When  sadly  by  those  fountains  sat  and  wept, 
To  music  of  the  murmuring  stream,  thine  own 
Forsaken  ones.     Neglected  hung  their  harps 
Upon  the  weeping  willow-trees,  and  sad 
And  lonely  felt  they  in  a  land  so  strange ; 
And  in  their  woe  cried,  Sit  we  down,  yea,  weep 
We  by  these  rivers  bitter  tears  when  we 
Remember  Zion,  city  of  our  love. 
Deep  notes  of  lamentation  filled  the  air 
When  thy  sad  captive  children  shook  from  off 
Their  slowly  dragging  feet  thy  precious  dust — 
Ne'er  resting  in  their  toilsome  flight  and  march, 
'Till  in  a  desert  land  they  laid  them  down. 


30  "O  BLESSED  HOME!" 

From  hopeless  bondage,  deepest  ruin,  He 
Soon  called  thee,  and  in  robes  of  beauty  made 
Thee,  Zion,  glorious  again — •"  The  Lord 
Hath  chosen  thee."  Behold,  thy  house  is  left 
No  longer,  Zion,  lone  and  desolate  ! 
No  longer,  Zion,  lone  and  desolate 
Shall  thine  own  glorious  house  be  left ;  for  thou 
Hast  called  upon  Him  who,  unsinking,  walked 
The  waves  of  Galilee — who  didst  so  rule 
The  raging  of  the  sea,  that  when  the  waves 
Thereof  did  rise  in  anger,  He  did  still 
By  His  own  wondrous  voice  their  violence. 
Him  thou  hadst  called  upon — and  He,  so  full 
Of  love,  compassion,  mercy,  grace  and  truth, 
Did  teach  His  way  to  thee  and  glorified 
Thy  name,  till,  like  a  Bride  adorned  for  Him 
The  chosen  one,  thou  standest  undefiled, 
Exalted,  free  from  wrath  that  once  did  lie 
And  compass  thee  like  deep  and  weltering  waves. 
How  great  hath  been  His  mercy  who  hath  raised 
Thee  from  the  dead  and  given  new  life  to  thee  ! 
More  than  the  house  of  Jacob  loveth  He 
Thy  gates,  O  Zion — thee  and  all  thy  works. 
Through  Him  thou  hast  been  faithful,  and  'tis  He 
Who  guards  thee  "  'gainst  assemblies,"  and  who  loves 
Thy  faithfulness,  thy  wondrous  beauty,  strange 
And  fearful,  glorious  in  its  strength  and  light. 
No  need  hast  thou,  O  Zion,  of  the  sun, 
Nor  of  the  moon  to  shine  upon  thy  face ; 


"0  BLESSED  HOME/"  31 

For  God's  own  glory  lightens  it — the  Lamb, 

O  Holy  City,  is  the  light  thereof. 

A  day  in  thy  fair  courts,  aye,  one  short  day, 

Far  better  is  than  thousands  here — far  better 

A  lowly  keeper,  Zion,  in  thy  house, 

Than  dwell  a  king  in  wickedness  below. 

High  is  His  right  hand  over  thee,  and  strong 

And  mighty  is  His  loving  arm.     His  face 

Is  shining  over  all  thy  hills,  that  once 

Were  dark  with  shadows.     Never  more  shall  boughs 

And  branches  of  thy  sacred  cedars  bend 

Unto  the  seas  and  rivers — ne'er  again 

Shall  all  thy  hedge  be  broken,  nor  thy  flowers 

Be  plucked  by  stranger  hands.     He  who  so  lov'd 

And  pitied  thee  hath  clave  the  hardened  Rock, 

And  thou  shalt  drink  for  evermore  of  sweet 

And  sparkling  waters.     Ne'er  again  upon 

Thy  mountain's  sacred  top  shall  conquering  troops 

Sweep  in  their  power.     Upon  its  summit  now 

Glad  hearts  will  ever  throb  to  music  sweet ; 

And  when  upon  thy  valleys'  bosom  fall 

Soft  shades  of  eve,  and  on  thy  gates  of  pearl 

The  lingering  light  dim  shadows  fondly  kiss, 

By  thine  own  rivers  come  with  songs  and  harps 

Again  thy  virgins  fair,  whose  beating  hearts, 

Like  that  deep-troubled  sea,  have  felt  the  storm, 

And  now  are  "  stilled,"  and  feel  the  storm  no  more. 


32  SWEEP,   O  SEA! 


SWEEP,  O  SEA! 

[WEEP,  sweep,  sweep,  o'er  a  cold,  pale  face,  O 

Sea — 

O'er  a  closed  red  mouth  with  its  sobbing  and  song, 
With  its  kisses  of  passion,  lips  dumb  with  wrong — 
O'er  a  blind,  strangled  Hope,  sweep,  O  Sea. 

Too  late  the  poor  sensuous  soul  felt,  O  Sea, 

While  leaping  with  all  the  "  wild  sweetness  of  love," 
The  earth's  slime  and  bitterness.     Light  from  above 

Glimmered  not  o'er  the  wrecked  one,  O  Sea. 

Sweep,  sweep,  sweep,  o'er  golden  billows  of  hair — 
O'er  whitest  of  bosoms — o'er  fairest  of  flesh — 
O'er  gleaming  and  glitt'ring  gems  from  the  mesh 

That  Dishonor  hath  wove  for  the  fair. 

Break,  break,  break,  o'er  this  fallen  one,  O  Sea ; 

The  warm,  sheltering  wing  under  which  it  once  crept 
Feels  no  more   the   heart-throbs — in  sweet  faith  it 
slept, 

And  awakes  now  to  sorrow  and  thee. 

Fold,  fold,  fold,  to  thy  bosom  cold,  O  Sea, 

This  sad  mateless  heart,  that  has  dared  leave   the 
pain 


WHY.  33 

That  beat  back  the  sin,  yet  fell  once  again — 
Aye,  fold,  fold  o'er  the  frail  one,  O  Sea. 


Break,  break,  break,  O  thou  surging  billow,  o'er 
A  baffled  young  life — o'er  a  sad,  songless  soul. 
O  black,  hungry  sea — O  blinding  waves,  roll 

O'er  this  passion  and  pain  evermore. 


WHY. 

|HY  are  the  brightest  stars  before  our  eyes 

The  soonest  gone? 
Their  sacred  trust  resign  they  to  their  Queen, 
Sweet,  blushing  Morn. 

"  What  from  this  barren  being  do  we  reap — " 
What  joyous  see  ? 

Ah !  as  we  sow,  so  reap  we  in  the  field 
Of  Destiny. 

Why.  ere  the  smile  has  died  upon  the  lip, 
The  stain  of  grief? 

'Tis  sent  to  tell  how  lasting  joys  of  Heaven — 
Of  Earth,  how  brief  I 


34  TO  MY  LITTLE  DAUGHTER. 

Why  comes  not  through  this  black  and  stormy  night 
My  loved — my  own  ? 

Faith  points  me  to  the  paths  by  pastures  green, 
And  fadeless  crown. 


TO   MY  LITTLE   DAUGHTER. 

[WRITTEN    ON    A    RAINY    NIGHT    IN    DECEMBER.] 

j]Y  daughter  !     Ah  ,  what  other  name  can  stir 

The   inmost  depths   of  this   fond   heart   like 
thine  ? 

Sweet,  worshipped  Idol — Fragile  Flowret — Star 
Of  purest  ray  sent  o'er  my  path  to  shine. 

Bright  little  Starlet,  thou'rt  my  one  sweet  Dream — 
The  Hope  that  nestles  deepest  in  my  heart — 

Whose  throbbings  seem  an  echo  of  the  soul, 
So  wildly  praying  we  may  never  part. 

This  long  and  lonely  night,  on  bended  knee, 
I  pray  our  Father  to  watch  o'er  and  keep 

Thy  unstained  soul  forever  pure — and  thou 
Art  smiling  on  me,  Darling,  in  thy  sleep. 

Smile  on,  sweet  Baby,  smile,  and  softly  dream 
There  is  within  my  breast  some  hidden  wire ; 


NIGHT.  35 

Thy  smiles  alone  the  secret  chords  can  trill, 
Thy  name  alone  the  gentle  string  inspire. 

Smile  on,  I  know  bright  angels  are  around 
Thy  little  couch  and  whispering  in  thine  ear 

Undying  words  of  love,  and  faith,  and  trust, 
That  thou  canst  never  learn,  my  sweet  One,  here. 

The  storm  is  raging  and  the  night  is  lone  ; 

Yet  seem  there  gleams  of  sunshine  o'er  my  way. 
May  thy  last  sleep  by  guardians  pure  be  watched — 

Thy  bright  eyes  op'd  to  an  eternal  day ! 


NIGHT. 

JOW  sad,  how  beautiful  the  Night  is,  and 

The  darkness  how  profound  ;  how  heavy  when 
The  sable  goddess  o'er  a  slumbering  world 
Her  "  leaden  sceptre  "  stretches  forth  !    Did  not 
Yon  glorious  orb,  so  fraught  with  charity 
And  love,  throw  light  and  smiles  and  splendor  on 
The  black-robed  earth — to  purest  silver  turn 
With  this  enchanting,  this  soul-stirring  light, 
The  lining  of  yon  floating  cloud?    Is  this 
The  same  soft  moon,  whose  silver  crescent  hung 
High  in  the  clear  blue  Heavens  years  ago, 


36  NIGHT. 

When  first  young  Night  was  'rayed  in  drapery 

Of  thick  and  gloomy  black — a  shadow  dim 

And  long,  from  her  cold  shoulders  hanging  low 

A  mantle,  under  which  the  playful  winds 

Would  peep,  and  frolic  with  the  grave,  dark  maid  ? 

Is  this  the  moon,  which,  when  the  infant  world 

First  shadowed  was  by  Night's  mysterious  wing, 

Peeped  from  her  curtain  of  dim  ether,  bland, 

Benign,  and  softly  beautiful  ?     That  moon 

To  which  the  Spartans  sacrificed  their  share 

Of  glory  on  the  field  of  Marathon, 

And  to  whose  honor  Israel's  King  did  build 

That  edifice — so  grand  and  gorgeous,  scarce 

A  work  of  human  hands  it  seemed?     Ah,  yes  ! 

This  moon,  which  rocks  the  restless  tide  from  shore 

To  shore,  and  gilds  the  heaving  waters  as 

They  foam  and  lave  the  lonely  vessel's  side — 

Which,  through  the  watches  of  the  sleepless  night, 

The  one  Companion,  Friend,  who  loves  us  then, 

And  looks  in  kindness  on  our  tear-stained  face, 

Is  that  same  orb  which  smiled  back  to  the  star 

Which  taught  us  "  Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 


THE  SOUTHERN  FOREST  FLOWER.         37 


THE  SOUTHERN  FOREST  FLOWER. 

|  WEET,  fragile  flower,  deep  in  thy  clear  blue  eye 
And  trusting  face  we  trace  the  smile  of  Heaven. 
What  hast  thou  felt  of  sorrow's  night — what  known 
Of  that  black  grief  by  which  our  souls  are  riven  ? 

No  wintry  showers  or  white-winged  tempests  leave 
Their  icy  tributes  on  thy  perfumed  cheek  ; 

But  softest  zephyrs  print  the  amorous  kiss 

On  thy  fair,  blushing  brow,  so  pure  and  meek. 

Bright-blooming  flow'ret,  in  thy  forest  home, 
Rocked  not  by  storm  nor  ocean's  ceaseless  swell, 

Thou  art  not  sad  or  lonely,  for  thou  hast 
No  piteous  tale  of  hopeless  love  to  tell. 

How  many  tempest-tossed  hearts,  sweet  flower, 
That  feel  "  the  pain  without  the  peace  of  death," 

Sigh  for  thy  forest  home,  thy  peaceful  hours, 
The  low,  soft  music  of  thy  zephyr's  breath. 

When  weary  hearts  send  to  a  smiling  face 

The  warm  life-blood,  how  sweet  to  them  'twould  be, 

To  share  thy  lonely  home — with  thee,  to  view 
The  birthplace  of  undying  melody  1 


38  RAIN  AT  NIGHT. 


RAIN  AT  NIGHT. 

JATTER,  patter,  dreary  rain 

'Gainst  my  lonely  window-pane — 
Hid  from  view  the  Night's  fair  Queen, 
Peeping  stars  no  longer  seen, 

Patter,  dreary  rain ! 

II. 

Poured  out  is  the  soul  to-night — 
Flickers  in  the  heart  the  light, 
Through  the  darkness  and  the  damp, 
Sweet  and  precious  from  the  lamp 
Memory  has  lit ! 

III. 

Fast  and  steadily  the  rain 
Dashes  'gainst  my  window-pane — 
Close  and  heavy  is  the  air, 
Burdened  is  the  heart  with  care  ; 

Darker  grows  the  night  1 

IV. 

Dull,  determined,  plashing  rain, 
Wet  with  tears  my  lonely  pane, 
Lull  me  to  delicious  dreams — 
Voices  sweet  your  dropping  seems, 

And  my  soul  is  stirred  ! 


RAIN  AT  NIGHT.  39 

V. 

Thrilling  the  mysterious  chain, 
Binding  heart  to  heart  again  ; 
Come  sad  yearnings  vain  and  sweet, 
For  those  forms  we  ne'er  can  meet 
In  this  land  of  tears  I 

VI. 

Yet  their  loving  glances  seem 
Ever  stealing  through  my  dream — 
Fitful,  homeless,  moaning  wind, 
Bringing  voices  sad  and  kind, 

Sing,  oh,  sing  to  me ! 

VII. 

Sing !  to-night  my  spirit  grieves — 
And,  ye  dark  and  shaken  leaves, 
Trembling,  struggling  in  the  rain, 
Whisper,  too,  against  my  pane 

All  the  low  winds  say  I 

VIII. 

Softly,  sweetly  dies  the  rain — 
Gently  sighs  the  wind  again ; 
Odors  float  upon  its  wings, 
And  it  joyful  tidings  brings — 

Lo,  the  morn  has  come! 


40  LINES   TO  MY  MOTHER. 

IX. 

Night,  with  garments  black,  is  o'er — 
Shivering  Spirits  come  no  more ; 
Weird,  fantastic  Spirits  bold, 
Through  the  wind  and  rain  and  cold, 
Sigh  and  moan  no  more ! 


LINES  TO  MY  MOTHER! 

EAR  Mother,  let  me  weep — I  yield  to  Memory's 

power, 

She  gently  leads  me  back  to  Girlhood's  happy  hour, 
To  starlit  scenes  I  loved — ah  !  golden  dreams  of  joy — 
Ah  bitter,  bitter  Life,  why  sweet,  bright  dreams   de 
stroy? 

Know,  Mother,  while  I  weep,  this  is  no  wasted  shower ; 
Tears  purify  the  heart,  and  oft  through  suffering's  hour 
They  turn  to  patient  smiles,  and  sweeten  daily  care — 
Tears  do  not  always  come  from  "  some  divine  despair." 

And,  Mother,  still  I  weep ;  check  not  the  tears  that  fall, 
Storms  swell  the  summer  seas ;  and  Mother,  for  us  all, 
To  each  and  every  heart,  storms  come  in  mighty 

wrath, 
And  swell  to  seas  of  Grief  each  wavelet  in  our  path. 


LINES   TO  MY  MOTHER.  41 

Then,  Mother,  let  me  weep ;  thou  wilt  not  scorn  my 

tears ; 
Through   night   and   storm  and   darkness,  thou   hast 

calmed  my  fears, 

Thy  love  so  wide,  so  deep,  no  fleeting  Time  decays, 
But  still  increaseth  ever  with  increasing  days. 

Ah,  Mother,   let    me   smile;    joy  is  not  doomed  to 

death — 
Tho'  Time  has  blighted  hopes,  with  cold  and  withering 

breath ; 

O  thou  "  deep  well  of  life,"  my  Mother's  tender  love  ! 
Bring  meekness  to  this  heart,  and  lift  my  thoughts 

above — 

Above  these  blighted  hopes,  above  these  falling  tears ! 
Where  throbbing,  homeless  hearts  feel  not  the  storms 

and  fears 
That  swell  and  break  them  here — O  God !  Thy  mercy 

prove 
And  shield  me — Father,  shield  me,  with  a  Mother's 

love. 


42  THE  DEAD  INFANT. 


THE  DEAD  INFANT. 

|OW  white  it  is! — How  fair  the  tiny  hand  at  rest 
Upon  its  bosom  cold!    What  has  this  stainless 

breast 
E'er  known  of  sin  or  grief?     Pure  as  the  bud  whose 

leaves 

Are  nestling  near  that  young  and  sinless  heart,  it  grieves 
Us  much  to  part  with  one  so  fair ;  yet  faith  can  give 
This  comfort,  holy,  sweet — "the  child  tho'  dead  shall 

live." 

He  who  unsinking  walked  the  tempest-tossed  waves, 
Can  bring  us  to  the  Gem  our  heart,  so  stricken,  craves 
To  wear  once  more.    Our  Treasure  is  not  lost,  but  given 
In  holy  trust  to  Him  who  loves  it  now  in  Heaven. 
"  God  loveth  whom  He  chasteneth  " — to  the  poor  shorn 

Lamb 

He  tempers,  too,  the  wind,  till  in  the  bl.ssed  calm 
Which  falls  upon  the  heart,  we  pant  not  for  the  strife, 
Only  for  the  water-brooks — there  to  drink  the  life 
Those  waters  give — to  walk  where  "  Gilead  sheds  her 

balm," 
We  pant  to  rest  our  forms  on  Jordan's  banks  of  palm. 


REFLECTIONS.  43 


REFLECTIONS. 

|T  is  the  calm,  sweet  hour  of  moonlight: — o'er 

the  distant  hill 
The  echo  of  the  bells  is  dead,  the  curfew-tones  are 

still ; 
The  fitful  wind  no  longer  sighs ;    no  longer  falls  and 

swells 
Upon  my  listening  ear  to-night,  the  music  of  those  bells. 

The  pearly  dew-drop  on  the  leaf,  still  trembling,  glit 
tering,  lies 

Pressed  to  the  daisy's  bosom  white,  in  sweets  it  lives 
and  dies. 

As  to  the  flower  it  beauty  adds,  as  sparkling  clear  it 
clings 

So  love  enchanted  oft  o'er  forms  a  pure,  bright  mantle 
flings. 

As  gazing  on  the  shining,  beaming  glory  of  the  skies, 

I  seem  to  meet  a  glance  that  glows  deep  in  my  soul 
from  eyes 

Whose  crystal  deep  reflects  the  bliss  in  heaven  we  trust 
to  meet. 

"  More  pure,  more  clear,  it  could  not  be,  nor  more  di 
vinely  sweet." 


44  REFLECTIONS. 

'Twere  best  if  from  my  soul,  to-night,  thine  image  I 

could  rend, 

But  hate  or  e'en  indifference  with  love  will  never  blend. 
My  spirit  trembling  falters,  but  my  passion  brightly 

burns ; 
To  clasp  thee  as  in  days  of  yore,  my  throbbing  heart 

still  yearns. 

I  see  no  joy,  no  light,  no  hope,  beyond  thy  heavenly 

smile ; 

I  catch  a  glad  revealing  and  a  glimpse  of  Heaven  while 
Thy  love-lit  eyes  like  azure  sheen,  look  smilingly  on  me, 
I  have  no  thought,  no  wish,  no  dream,  but  thee  and 

only  thee. 

Then  leave,  oh  leave  me  not  alone  in  sorrow's  shade  to 

bear 
The  weight  of  loneliness,  of  tears,  of  cold  neglect  and 

care; 
Bright-loving  forms  aress  thee  oft,  but  my  poor  bosom, 

torn 
Of  all  it  loves,  bleeds  for  those  smiles  by  thee,  thee 

only  worn. 

Thou'st  been  to  me  a  ray-of  light,  a  bright,  immortal 

star, 
A  beacon-fire  some  wrecked  one  sees  through  black 

night-clouds  afar, 


LINES   TO  MISS  SALLY  W.  45 

That  guides  to  shores  with  friendly  light  o'er  dark  and 

stormy  wave, 
Lit  by  a  watching,  loving  hand,  the  hapless  wreck  to 

save. 

No  longer  shines  that  beacon-light  o'er  life's  deep  joy 
less  sea, 

Fierce  storms  have  wrecked  life's  gliding  bark,  and 
dimmed  that  star  to  me. 

If  thou  hast  turned  that  radiant  smile  that  stirred  my 
soul,  to  scorn, 

If  thou  hast  left  me,  then,  oh  then  I'm  desolate — forlorn. 


LINES   RESPECTFULLY    INSCRIBED    TO  MISS 
SALLY  W.,  OF  AUGUSTA,  GA. 


HREE  moons  agone  I  met  and  loved 
A  fair-haired,  winsome  girl,  who  seemed 


Fore'er  to  be  a  messenger 

Of  joy  and  love.     A  harp,  a  lute, 

Attuned  to  softest  melody, 

Was  not  more  sweet,  more  strangely  sweet, 

Than  was  the  soft,  soul-stirring  tones, 

Whose  cadence  one  sweet  April  eve 

Fell  on  my  ear  and  filled  my  soul 

With  love. 

And  I  had  said,  "  I  dare 


46  LINES   TO  MISS  SALLY  W. 

Not  let  my  hungry,  begging  heart 
Go  out  to  her.     Hers  never  feels  ; 
Her  soul  thrills  not  at  strains  that  move 
That  hidden  wire  within  my  own." 

But  I  had  erred.     Fresh  as  it  were 
From  Eden's  emerald  bowers,  Love, 
Tender,  patient,  pure,  had  folded 
Long  ago  his  rosy  wings,  and 
Shrouded,  lay  deep  in  that  feeling 
Heart.     Love  for  the  beautiful 
Of  earth.     Love  for  the  truth,  and  for 
The  tears  that  spring  from  sorrow's 
Never-failing  well ;  a  sweet  and 
Gentle  sympathy,  bathing  all 
Who,  making  idols,  find  them  clay, 
In  floods  of  love  and  tenderness. 

Sweet,  stranger  Friend,  methinks  that,  in 
Those  everlasting  walks  of  saints 
And  blessed  spirits,  none  more  pure 
Will  ever  trace  the  margin  of 
The  Jasper  Sea — no  purer  feet 
Be  wet  with  Hermon's  dews,  or  be 
"  Sandalled  with  immortality." 


DECORATING   THE   GRAVES.  47 


DECORATING   THE   GRAVES   OF   OUR   DEAD 
ON   THE   26TH    OF    APRIL. 

|HILE  bright  clouds  gather  round  the  rising  sun, 

Like  Southern  banners  in  their  day  of  pride  ; 
A  labor  sweet,  of  love,  is  to  be  done. 
This  day  we  thank  Thee,  Father,  that  upon 
These  precious  heads,  these  hearts  so  "true  and  tried," 
No  trouble  falls. 

The  "  trumpet's  stirring  blast"  wakes  not  their  sleep  ! 

No  war's  wild  note,  or  wail  of  glories  past 
Can  reach  these  soldier  hearts — and  we  who  weep 
Need  not  a  glittering  marble  shaft  to  keep 

Their  image  fresh — thoughts  of  their  deeds  will  last 
Till  life  is  done. 

We  kneel  and  thank  Thee  that  their  tents  are  spread 

On  "  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground;  "  no  foe 
Disturbs  sweet  dreams,  nor  calls  to  arms  ! — they're  led 
Through  pastures  sweet  and  green,  by  One  who  fed 
And  nurtured  Hagar's  son  through  all  his  woe 
And  journey  lone. 

But  Father,  'tis  yet  night  with  many  a  poor 
Lone  heart — a  night  of  storm  !     Though  years  have 
sown 


4S  DECORATING    THE   GRAVES. 

Bright  blooming  flowers  and  herbage  sweet  thick  o'er 
Their  lonely  graves,  far  distant  seems  that  shore 

Those  loved  feet   press — and  widowed  hearts   still 
mourn 

Their  buried  joys. 

Fond  Mother  (as  in  prayer  you  kneel),  e'en  now 
Your  boy  is  resting  neath  sweet  olive-shades — 
His  lips  are  laved  in  waters  pure — his  brow 
Is  cool  and  damp  with  Hermon's  dew.     Ah !    how, 
Bright  spirit,  could  we  call  thee  from  those  glades 
To  see  our  woe  ? 

Dear  Father !  as  we  come  this  day  to  spread 
Our  humble  tributes  on  each  lowly  grave, 
Lock  not  Thy  heart ! — but,  as  we  bow  the  head 
In  meek  submission,  let  Thy  grace  be  shed 
On  all  these  mourning  ones.     We  comfort  have — 
They  rest  with  Thee  ! 


LINES.  49 


LINES 

Respectfully  inscribed  to  the  fair  Poetess,  Mrs.  E.  B.  C. 

BY    A    FRIEND.* 

JWAKEN,  fair  Lady,  thy  muse  from  its  slumbers, 

Thy  lyre  has  been  silent  too  long ; 
Attune  it  once  more  to  harmonious  numbers, 
Dispel  ev'ry  care  which  thy  genius  encumbers, 
And  pour  forth  thy  spirit  in  song. 

In  thy  lyrics  of  yore  there's  a  pathos,  a  feeling 

So  tender,  so  gentle,  so  lone, 
A  pleasant,  a  sweet  melancholy  revealing, 
Whose  influence  so  soft  o'er  my  senses  comes  stealing, 

With  visions  of  joy  that  have  flown. 

I  dwell  with  delight  on  thy  soft  flowing  measures, 

There's  a  charm,  there's  a  spell  in  each  line, 
A  sadness  of  heart  blending  with  the  rich  treasures 
Of  thought,  the  ideal  of  lost  cherished  pleasures, 
That  finds  a  deep  echo  in  mine. 

Then  waken,  fair  Lady,  thy  muse  from  its  slumbers, 

Thy  lyre  has  been  silent  too  long, 
Attune  it  once  more  to  harmonious  numbers, 
Dispel  ev'ry  care  which  thy  genius  encumbers, 

And  pour  forth  thy  spirit  in  song. 

*  Dr.  J.  Emmett  Blackshear,  Macon,  Ga. 
5 


50  LINES   TO  "A  FRIEND." 


LINES  TO   "A  FRIEND." 

|HILE  through  the  twilight  soft  and  gray, 

The  stars  of  Heaven  break; 
I  touch  with  trembling  hand  my  lyre, 
Its  lays  once  more  to  wake. 

The  clinging,  mystic  veil,  dear  Friend, 

I  lift for  you  disclose 

The  simple  charms  my  Muse  possessed — 

for  you  break  her  repose. 

I've  little  cared  to  wake  from  sleep 

This  Muse,  forsaken  long ; 
I  knew  not  I  had  touched  one  soul 

With  my  rude,  simple  song. 

I  dreamed  not  I  had  planted  flowers 

By  any  barren  road; 
I  knew  not  I  had  ever  stilled 

In  hearts  a  woe-swept  chord. 

Yes,  yes,  my  begging  soul  has  felt, 

While  hope  has  sent  no  beam, 
How  sweet  to  teach  some  fainting  heart 

To  hush  its  griefs — and  dream ! 


"ONE  OF  THESE  Z)AYS."  51 

Dream  on,  O  hearts  !     The  moonlight  comes 

To  cheer  the  soul's  dark  cell ; 
The  moonlight  of  sweet  words  ! — O  hearts, 

Dream  on  ! — "all  will  be  well." 


"ONE  OF  THESE  DAYS." 

[Suggested  by  a  promise  once  made  the  writer.] 

|NE  of  these  days  !  " — and  I  have  waited,  never, 

No,  never  doubting  it  would  come  at  last ; 
And  now  like  soft  winds  o'er  the  ripples  breaking, 
Comes  o'er  my  heart — that  promise  of  the  past. 

Yes,  sweet  and  tuneful  as  the  white  spray  rustling, 
As  back  it  leaps  from  wings  of  lone  sea-birds  ; 

As  Autumn's  falling  leaves — as  low,  as  plaintive — 
Come  sad,  low  echoes  of  your  parting  words. 

And  now,  though  Hope  is  dead,  or  silent  slumbers, 
And  chains  the  cold  world  bids  us  keep  too  fast, 

Bind  hand,  not  heart,  the  torn  and  bleeding  bosom 
Finds  healing  in  sweet  mem'ries  of  the  past. 

Impassioned  souls  by  grief  are  held  together  ! 

Friendship  of  joy-bound  hearts  can  never  last ; 
Those  joyous  hearts  I  love,  but  give  me,  rather, 

A  spirit  'wake  to  mem'ries  of  the  past. 


52  A   SCENE. 

To-night  my  tuneful  soul  is  sadly  dreaming 
In  sorrow  far  too  deep  for  tears,  of  lays 

Of  "Long  ago's,"  sad  words  of  your  sweet  speaking — 
Then  whisper  once  again,   "  One  of  these  days." 

REPLY. 

"  One  of  these  days  "  will  surely  come,  and,  coming, 
This  "  Land  of  Shadows  "  will  be  filled  with  rays 

Bright,  beauteous,  gleaming,  grand,  oh,  like  to  Heaven  ! 
Will  this  dark,  cloud-land  be,  "  one  of  these  days." 


A  SCENE. 

BREATH  of  Summer  comes  !  low  breezes  waft 
From  out  the  quiv'ring  pines  and  shad'wy  woods 
A  sweet  perfume;— and  o'er  the  throbbing  brow 
Sweet  tuneful  gales  light  childhood's  happy  laugh. 
The  Rose's  bosom  'neath  the  soft  embrace 
Of  low  night-winds,  with  passion  pants  and  swells 
(That  sweet  emotion  welling  in  her  heart 
But  wakes  to  power  some  blushing,  budding  grace). 
Beneath  the  light  of  yon  pale,  yellow  moon 
Whose  beams  come  down  to  wed  the  bright,  fresh  dew, 
A  young  girl's  heart  with  melody  runs  o'er ; 
A  new,  fond  light  shines  in  her  beauteous  eye ! 
With  womanhood's  sweet,  early  dawn  there  came 


A   SCENE.  53 

A  gush  of  feeling,  new,  delicious,  strange  ! 

No  gloomy  shadows  linger  in  the  folds 

Of  that  young,  trusting  heart-^/br  she  is  loved. 

He  comes  !  On  scented  air  the  sound  is  borne ! 

The  tide  of  love  flows  crimson  to  her  brow, 

And  that  fair  bosom  pants  as  does  the  Rose 

When  her  affianced  Zephyr  stoops  to  print 

Its  maiden  kiss  on  pouting,  dewy  lips. 

Sweet,  trembling,  blushing  girl,  hast  thou  no  fear 

That  in  thy  "web  of  life  "  lie  sombre  threads? 

Or  that  to  which  we  cling  a  bubble  is — 

Bursting  whene'er  we  feel  it  in  our  grasp  ? 

Ah,  no !  those  eyes  that  speak  to  thee  of  love, 

Have  moved  thy  heart  to  hope,  and  faith,  and  trust. 

We  know  him  not ;  but  as  o'er  gravelled  walks 

He  treads  to  yon  loved  trysting-bow'r,  we  feel 

That  manly  step  bespeaks  a  manly  heart. 

Again  the  moonbeams  dance — the  sweet,  fresh  flowers 

Bloom  in  that  bow'r — but  tears  are  on  their  cheeks, 

And  where  that  tiny  foot  was  wont  to  rest 

A  daisy  drooped  its  head  and  died  ! — for  she 

Who  loved  and  nursed  it — she,  that  fair,  young  maid 

Whose  heart  one  bright,  brief  year  ago  beat  high 

With  mortal  love  and  joy — is  laid  to  rest ; 

And  he  whose  dream,  whose  light,  whose  life  she  was, 

'Neath  green-robed  weeping  willows  calls  in  vain. 


54  HOPE. 


HOPE. 

"  I  could  lie  down,  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  this  life  of  care." 

|ES,  Friend ! — and  I  have  borne  the  burdens  too, 

That  heavy  lay  upon  our  mortal  being  ; 
I,  too,  have  prayed  that  "death  might  steal  on  me  " 
When  Hope  seemed  ever  from  my  pathway  fleeing. 

Ah,  yes  !  and  often  prayed  that  I  might  feel 

This  poor,  proud  heart  grow  cold  to  worldly  feeling ; 

When  mem'ry  of  the  hearts  I've  fondly  loved, 
Of  lips  I've  fondly  kissed,  came  o'er  me  stealing. 

I've  seen  my  sweet,  short  summers  come  and  go, 
And  knelt  with  tearful  face  o'er  flowers  dying ; 

I've  seen  (as  lone  birds  to  some  stranger  shore) 
Without  one  hope,  my  cherished  visions  flying. 

And  when  for  me  the  sweet,  bright  May  had  passed 
When  coming  Night  shut  out  my  radiant  Morning ; 

I've  knelt  despairing,  bathed  in  bitter  waves, 

And  kneeling,  praying,  ft  It  no  bright  hope  dawning. 

I've  sobbed,  low  bent,  at  evening's  holy  hour, 

O'er  precious  forms  stilled  to  a  dreamless  sleeping ; 

And  when  the  sunlight  crept  thro'  mossy  eaves 
To  win  a  gladsome  smile,  it  found  me  weeping. 


THE    VALLEY  OF  THE  PAST.  55 

When  life's  fast  sinking  sun  shall  set,  O  Friend  ! 

These  hearts  that  with'ring  cares  below  have  riven ; 
When  on  Earth's  bosom  night's  dark  veil  hangs  low, 

Will  greet  the  sweet,  glad  morning  light  in  Heaven. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  PAST. 

[  EE  in  yonder  distance  looming 
Through  the  Summer  eve's  soft  gloaming 
Yon  sweet  Valley  of  the  Past. 

Clear  blue  skies  are  kindly  bending 
O'er  the  lovely  vale,  and  sending 
Soft  light  to  the  tender  flow'rs. 

Green  and  fresh,  years  have  not  faded 
Aught  of  beauty's  light,  nor  shaded 
This  bright  mirror  of  the  past. 

And  my  soul  with  love  is  flooded 
As  the  vale,  star-gemmed  and  studded 
With  earth's  glories,  meets  my  eye, 

With  its  joyous  birds  and  flow'rs 
With  ephemeral  hosts  whose  hours 
Were  a  lifetime  of  delight. 


56       THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  PAST. 

Busy  wings  in  odors  dipping, 
Bathed  in  gold  and  crimson,  sipping 
Dew-drops  from  the  rose's  breast, 

While  the  slender  vines  are  trilling 
Music  soft  and  low  and  thrilling, 
Comes  one  picture  of  the  Past. 

Ah  !  methinks  while  breezes  flutter 
'Mong  the  eglantine,  and  utter 
Echoes  of  the  loved  and  lost, 

That  I  hear  a  promise  given 
Of  a  lasting  love  till  Heaven 

Hushed  the  murmuring  of  the  lips. 

Yea,  a  sweet  and  trembling  promise, 
As  all  light  seemed  fading  from  us 
Save  the  light  of  hope  and  love. 

Fondly  trusting  that  to-morrow 
Which  hid  parting,  death,  and  sorrow- 
Lived  we  in  a  Land  of  Smiles — 

And  the  Morrow  came — not  bringing 
Joy  upon  her  wing,  nor  flinging 
Hope's  sweet  light  upon  the  heart. 

Coming  o'er  the  hills,  and  meeting 

Sorrow,  gloomy-browed,  entreating 

And  forlorn,  her  hand  she  gave. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  PAST.      57 

"Whither  art  thou,  Morning,  going?" 
Sorrow  asked,  "  so  gayly  throwing 
Purple  light  o'er  land  and  sea  ? 

"  I  had  thought  all  light  to  gather, 
All  of  hope  and  joyance,  rather 
Than  be  gloomy-browed  like  thee. 

"  I  have  promised  hearts  awaiting 
My  swift  coming,  never  hating 
My  bright  presence,  joy  to  bring. 

"  You  have  joined  me ;   promise,  Sorrow, 
That  you  grief  no  more  will  borrow, 
And  will  turn  your  tears  to  smiles. 

"  Yesternight  Death  laid  her  fingers 
On  a  brave  young  heart,  and  lingers 
In  my  heart  the  shadow  yet. 

"  Tearful  I  am  sent,  the  vision 
Of  her  joy  to  kill — sad  mission ! 
Bright  Companion — now  farewell. 

"  I  must,  ere  your  warm  light  blesses, 
Still  her  heart-throbs  with  my  kisses — 
Shade  her  young  head  with  my  wing." 


53  MY  FADED  FLOWERS. 

This  one  picture  through  the  gloaming 
Sends  sad  Mem'ry  from  her  roaming, 
Leaving  me  to  busy  life. 


MY   FADED   FLOWERS. 

JES,  close  your  crimson  eyes !     Ye  teach, 
Ye  sadly  teach  of  change.     My  heart 
Will  gather  dew  and  freshness — then 
With  dew  and  freshness  live  apart, 
As  ye  are  living  now. 

Ye  cannot  feel  that  Time  is  hard 
Or  cruel,  tho'  he  steals  your  bloom ; 
No  memory's  ghost  from  out  the  past 
Is  gathering  heart  joy  to  his  tomb, 
No  grave-damp  on  your  brow. 

Ye  see  no  night — no  gloom  that  seems 
The  darkness  just  before  the  hour 
Of  death.      You've  never  felt  the  need 
Of  saving  kisses,  little  flower, 
Or  kissed  a  tear-stained  face. 

No,  no  !     You've  never  felt  the  proud 
Bright,  trailing  purple  of  your  love 


TO  MY  SWEET  JULIETTE.  59 

Turned  to  Hope's  winding-sheet ;  you've  lost 
No  sweet,  glad  echoes — tones  that  move 
Our  hearts  throughout  life's  space. 

Nor  know  (while  o'er  our  saddened  souls 
Sweep  mem'ries  wild)  our  country's  woe — 
You  bloom !  you  wither  !  but  we  live 
Live  hopeless  on — and  moanings  low 
Still  sweep  our  spirits'  chords. 

And  little  buds,  ye  do  not  know 
(Ungrateful  flowers)  nor  love  the  hand 
That  placed  ye  in  my  own.     Yes,  hang 
And  droop  upon  my  breast — yet  stand 
Fit  emblem  of  my  words. 


TO   MY   SWEET  JULIETTE. 

JIFE'S  morning  dreams  are  with  thee  now, 

And  stars  unnumbered  gild  thy  way ; 
And  Hope,  with  young  and  beauteous  brow, 
Tells  not  that  life  is  but  a  day — 

Tells  not  of  changes  we  may  meet, 
That  make  the  heart  a  living  tomb ; 

Tells  not  how  friends,  like  roses  sweet, 
Will  soon  be  shattered  while  in  bloom. 


60  TO  MY  SWEET  JULIETTE. 

I  would,  sweet  girl,  thy  life  should  be 
A  dream  of  beauty  and  of  love ; 

That  hearts  be  full  of  prayers  for  thee, 
And  angels  guide  to  joys  above. 

May  dark  Despair,  which  ever  leaves 
The  heart  a  crushed  and  faded  flow'r, 

Ne'er  visit  thee — for  deep  she  grieves, 
And  mighty  is  her  silent  pow'r. 

May  life  a  radiant  rainbow  be, 
Smiling  when  Heav'n  is  overcast ! 

A  bark  upon  a  moonlit  sea, 
Which  glides  and  never  feels  the  blast 

But,  Juliette,  vain  are  wishes  such 
As  nestle  deep  and  fill  my  soul — 

Do  but  your  duty,  'tis  as  much 
Of  joy  as  e'er  o'er  mortals  roll. 

And  oh,  remember  while  you  live 

(And  shine  as  brightest  starlets  shine), 

*•'  To  err  is  human  " — to  forgive 
The  faults  of  other  hearts— "  divine." 


YE  KNOW  NOT. 


YE  KNOW  NOT. 

|E  know  not,  happy,  beating  hearts, 

The  burden  of  Earth's  bliss ; 
Ye  know  not,  pouting,  dewy  lips, 
The  poison  of  a  kiss. 

Ye  see  not  haunted  shadows,  not 
Ye  bright  and  laughing  eyes 
The  fading,  falling  leaflets,  nor 
The  young  Rose  when  it  dies. 

Ye  feel  not,  faces  young  and  fair, 
The  hot  and  sinful  breath  ; 
Nor  fear  the  endless  midnight  hours, 
That  ever  shadow  death. 

Ye  are  not  bound,  O  sinless  souls, 
In  gyves  of  wickedness ; 
Ye're  born  of  Heaven — no  vital  air 
Of  yours  is  wretchedness. 

Your  heritage — a  pure,  bright  star, 
Scarce  shadowed  by  a  cloud — 
A  dream  of  gladness  and  of  joy — 

A  sweet,  remembered  word. 
6 


f.2  MEMNON. 

A  scented  breeze — a  soft,  low  note — 
A  tone  for  Angels'  ears — 
And  mine — the  soiled  and  trampled  leaf 
No  breath  of  Heaven  stirs. 


MEMNON ! 

jEMNON  !  thy  low,  sweet  voice,  has  silent  been 

For  many  years ; 
No  more  the  rays  of  that  fast  sinking  sun, 

Calls  forth  sad  tears. 
To  wanderers  through  the  Libyan  Desert  comes 

No  voice  of  woe, 
Nor  streams  upon  the  wings  of  morning  winds 

Thy  meanings  low. 
Was  it  thy  Mother's  tears  at  morning  shed,* 

That  gave  thy  tone 
The  plaintive  melody,  that  made  the  heart 

Feel  sad  and  lone  ? 
To  songsters  sweet,  thy  ashes  first  were  turned  ; 

And  in  the  waves 
Of  Esepus  their  wings  they  dipped,  and  came 

As  from  lone  graves 
A  sad,  low,  requiem  to  sing,  and  guard 

With  tender  care 

*  Ovid  speaks  of  the  sorrow  of  A  urora,  and  of  the  tears  she  shed  at 
morning,  over  the  metamorphosis  of  her  son. 


TO  MYRA.  63 

Thy  grand  and  gloomy  monumental  pile  * 

Now  black  and  bare. 
Upon  the  Plain  of  Thebes  thy  form  is  seen 

Of  towering  height ; 
Thy  guardian  Spirit  needs  not,  Memnon,  now 

The  warmth  and  light. 
Naught  but  the  vulture's  hoarse  notes  o'er  thy  head 

Sounds  through  the  Plain ; 
Bleak,  blackened,  stone,  no  ray  can  waken  thee 

To  life  again. 


TO  MYRA. 

j]E AR  Myra>  full  well  I  remember 

Your  sweet  "  Cottage  "  home  on  "  The  Hill ;  " 
Your  own  happy,  fun-loving  nature, 
That  bent  ev'ry  one  to  its  will. 

A  white,  low-roofed,  vine-wreathed  cottage, 

The  pillars  with  sweet-suckle  draped ; 
A  running  rose  climbing  to  kiss  it, 

A  truant  from  beds  you  had  shaped. 


*  These  birds,  called  Memnonides,  which  were  said  to  have  sprung  from 
the  ashes  of  Memnon,  were  also  said  to  come  at  certain  seasons  of  the 
year  to  cleanse  the  monument  with  great  care.  In  Pliny's  time,  the  Mem- 
nonic  birds  arrived  each  year,  in  the  middle  of  Ethiopia,  to  honor  the  hero. 


64  TO  MYRA. 

The  jessamine,  mingling  its  blossoms 
With  rich  blushing  clusters  of  rose; 

And  sending  away  the  delicious 

Perfume,  to  their  friends  and  their  foes. 

Yea,  foes,  for  some  hearts  never  waken 
To  beauties — the  primrose  so  slim, 

Is  naught  but  a  primrose — ne'er  shaken 
This  feeling  so  constant  to  them. 

And  Myra,  those  sweet  summer  evenings— 
The  broad,  shady  steps,  looking  on 

The  far-distant  green,  waving  meadows — 
Near  by,  the  gay  flower-decked  lawn. 

On  those  steps,  the  red  sun  a-glowing, 

And  dying  away  in  the  west ; 
Discovered  were  we  by  the  rompers, 

Discordantly  broke,  our  sweet  rest. 

Or  with  flowers  so  fragile  and  fragrant, 
And  mosses  rich,  dewy,  and  green, 

A  basket  for  Bennie  we  fashioned, 
To  send  to  his  own  "Fairy  Queen;  " 

When  lamps  in  the  parlor  were  lighted — 
When  long  walks  and  rambles  were  o'er, 

And  breezes  with  rich  perfume  laden, 
Came  in  at  the  wide  open  door ; 


0   LEAVES! 

When,  on  the  old  dark  satin  sofa, 

I  sat  dreaming  on  those  afar; 
My  heart  beating  time  to  the  echoes, 

You  woke  from  your  silver  guitar. 

"  A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing  " 
A  moment  swept  over  my  heart — 

Soon,  bright,  happy  faces,  beside  me, 
Caused  feelings  of  pain  to  depart. 

We  could  not  be  sad  if  we  wished  to — 
No  Sorrow  reached  out  her  gaunt  hand 

To  grapple  our  white  throats,  and  strangle 
The  joys  that  to  new  life  were  fanned. 

Dear  Myra,  I  wonder  if  ever 
The  earth  will  as  green  be  again — 

As  years  come  will  faces  beside  us 
Chase  away  our  sadness  and  pain  ? 


O  LEAVES ! 

LEAVES  !  why  sink  before  the  dim  wet  blast, 

And  to  the  dusky  bosom  of  the  Earth 
Press  your  young  heads? — the  shadows  will  not  last, 
But  back  to  sunshine,  where  they  had  their  birth. 
O  Moon !  why  hide  thy  face  in  cloudy  skies? 
Art  thou,  too,  sad  and  barred  from  happiness? 


06  ABSENCE. 

Is  this  a  tear-drop  from  those  Argus  eyes 
That  'gainst  my  thirsty  parched  lips  I  press  ? 

Perhaps  'twas  shed  in  sadness  by  the  flowers 

Dew-gemmed  and  fragrant  that  around  me  sleep  ! 
Or  hast  thou  seen  aught  that  in  ivied  bowers, 

Thy  rival  Sun  has  done  to  make  thee  weep? 
Ah,  envious  orb  !  the  sunset  leaves  its  ray, 

And  gilds  with  beauty  every  opening  rose ; 
But  when  thy  radiant  light  shines  o'er  our  way, 

Like  purest  gems  each  lovely  flow'ret  glows. 

O  restless  spirit — that  for  Lethe's  waves 

Art  deeply  sighing,  while  dim  shadows  fall 
And  longer  grow  on  lonely,  mossy  graves, — 

Cease  thy  complaint,  and  hearken  to  the  call 
Of  One  who  ever  bids  our  troubles  cease. 

Fear  not  the  chastenings  of  His  mighty  rod  ; 
Know  that  "beyond  these  voices  there  is  peace," 

And  trust  the  tender  mercy  of  thy  God. 


ABSENCE. 

[BSENCE!     Oh,  say,  is  not  the  weary  soul 

Torn  by  it  ?  Hearts  shut  out  from  life  and  light  ? 
Wild  prayers,  that  Lethe's  friendly  waves  may  roll 
O'er  aching  bosoms  that  feel  naught  but  night ! 


ABSENCE.  67 

Is  not  that  "cherished  hope"  fast  fading,  Friend, 
As  years  roll  on  and  thy  soul's  treasure  yet 

Is  silent  ?     Will  not  cold  suspicion  blend 

With  sick'ning  doubt  and  vain  prayers  to  forget  ? 

Ah,  yes  !  and  weary  days  and  hours  must  pass, 
Must  come  and  go,  and  coming,  bring  their  woe ; 

But  we  must  laugh,  and  dance,  and  sing,  alas ! 
Yet  feel  the  doom  that  brings  him  back  no  more. 

Why  feel  "  the  pain,  without  the  peace  of  death? " 
Why  shrine  an  image,  but  to  weep  its  loss  ? 

Why  meet  a  glance  that  thrills,  why  feel  a  breath 
Pure,  sweet — then  lose  it,  and  keep  but  life's  dross  ? 

Look  up  ! — to  what  ? — 'twere  better  far,  to  tell 
Yon  "sunbent  eagle,"  stricken  in  the  flight, 

To  soar  in  majesty  again.     'Twere  well, 

Yes,  well,  if  this  might  be — but  ah  !  this  night ! 

Some  sudden  joy  might  dawn  on  us  to-day  ? 

Perhaps,  when  westward  rises  yonder  sun, 
Dull,  aching  hearts  may  feel  an  ecstacy  ? 

Ah  yes  !  when  sobbing  "  God,  thy  will  be  done." 


68  IN  DREAMS. 


IN  DREAMS.* 

|HEN  this  soft-breathing,  blushing  hour  of  night, 
Clasps  round  my  neck  her  brilliant  jewelled 

arms; 
When  trembling  leaves  sigh  farewell  to  the  bright 

Sunbeams,  and  e'en  the  clinging  dew  alarms 
With  touch  too  free  the  modest,  shrinking  flowers ; 

When  dancing  stars  smile  that  the  envied  sun 
Has  sleepy  grown,  and  left  them  these  pure  hours, 

With  not  a  track  of  glory  now  upon 
The  clouded  west — in  such  an  hour  my  soul 

Turns  from  the  heated  race  of  life,  to  woo 
Sweet  sleep. — As  o'er  my  slumbering  senses  roll 

Bright  visions  of  my  youth — when  friends  were  true 
And  sorrow  blossomed  not — in  dreams  I  see 

"  A  star  that  turned  from  earth  its  tender  beam." 
Sweet  girlhood's  Friend  !  one  tender  sigh  for  thee  ! 

Then  back  to  busy  life — but  not  to  dream. 

*  Affectionately  inscribed  to  Mrs.  H.  G.  Lamar,  of  Macon,  the  mother 
of  my  early  friend,  S.  R.  V. 


DESOLATE!  69 


DESOLATE! 

JITYING  Father,  I  am  weary!    Is  there  no  rest 

for  me, 
With  bands  immortal,  star-like  bright,   beyond  the 

jasper  sea  ? 
My  tottering  limbs  are  bending  'neath  this  heavy  load 

of  care ; 

I'm  helpless,  hopeless,  desolate !  with  yielding  to 
despair, 

I've  waited  duteous,  oh  so  long ! — now  ceaseless  mur 
murs  moan 

And  tear  my  soul — and  yet  I  wait,  O  God  !  and  pite 
ous  groan. 

Still  sweltering  at  the  forge  of  sin,  I  fashion  coils  and 
chains ; 

Tho'  gold  they  be,  they  rivet  fast  my  soul  to  torturing 
pains. 

Alone  I  walk  Earth's  dreary  waste,  no  flower  gems   I 

view — 
Naught  richly  wrought,  or  fair,  or  bright,  adorns  with 

beauteous  hue. 
Yon  surging  wave's  white,  dancing  foam  but  seems  a 

heated  bath, 
Prepared   for   my   poor  quivering    flesh,    seething   in 

mighty  \vraih ! 


70  DESOLATE! 

Few  gentle  words,  no  lissome  oils  t'anoint  the  gaping 

wound 
The  world  makes  in  our  bleeding  hearts — no  fragrant 

ointment  bound 
To   feet  bruised  by  the  cruel  flints.      Friends  cold, 

neglectful,  give 
But  with'ring  frowns,  and  little  care  how  bitter  'tis  to 

live. 


Wearied,  I  long  to  leave  the  strife,  and,  like  some  tired 

child, 
Lie  near  cool,  gushing  waters,  where   the  whitening 

blossoms  wild, 
Nursed  by  the  breeze,  send  odors  sweet  to  greet  me  as 

Hie, 
Freed  from  the  heated  race  of  life — thus,  Father,  would 

I  die, 

So  weary,  pitying  Father  !    Ah  !  to  lap  the  cold,  dark 

wave 
Until  my  thirsty  soul  could  feel  that  rest  the   quiet 

grave 
Gives  to  its  guests  driv'n  by  the  blast  to  seek  its  deep, 

cold  breast ! 
I'm  helpless,  hopeless,  desolate !     O  Father,  give  me 

rest! 


THORNS.  71 

THORNS. 

"And  thorns  must  grow  as  well  as  roses." 

|AR  out  upon  a  lonely,  hoary  rock, 

'Midst  tangled,  matted  weeds,  there  bloomed 

and  smiled, 

And  looked  up  to  the  glad,  bright,  shining  sun, 
A  lovely,  blushing,  tender  flower  wild. 

And  gently  through  the  strong,  rough  weeds  it  crept, 
And  found  its  sweet  way  to  the  open  day ; 

There,  basking,  smiling,  thanking  that  kind  orb 
That  gave  it  nursing  with  his  glorious  ray. 

I — leaning  o'er  that  tender  orphan  rose, 
Caressing  with  my  hand  its  blushing  face — 

Sighed,  as  I  thought,  ere  many  suns  should  set, 
It,  too,  would  be  an  emblem  of  life's  race. 

The  bee  which  woo'd  you,  flower,  but  yester-noon, 
To-morrow  comes  to  find  your  sweetness  gone ; 

Your  pink  and  scented  bosom  white  with  age. 

Then  come ! — Ah,  rose  !  you've,  too,  a  cruel  thorn. 

I've  heard  that  hearts  the  soonest  'wake  to  flowers 

Are  ever  first  to  feel  the  cruel  thorn ; 
But,  little  stranger,  in  my  happier  hours, 

I've  said,  "  And  of  the  thorns  are  roses  born." 


72  SIGHING  FOR    THEE— BALLAD. 

Indeed  an  emblem  !  modest  little  flower 
As  hid  among  your  shining,  sheltering  leaves 

(Whose  odorous  breath  floats  on  the  summer  gale). 
Is  found  a  thorn  for  him  who  yet  believes. 

He,  in  His  wisdom,  has  affixed  some  sting 
To  all  that  sweet  and  fair  upon  us  dawns ; 

I  know  that  in  Fate's  Lexicon  there  stands 
'Gainst    suffering    woman's    name    "thorns,    cruel 
thorns." 


SIGHING  FOR  THEE— BALLAD. 

Inscribed  to  my  spirit-friend,  Miss  C******  £>******. 


|gg|IGHING  for  thee,  Love,  yes,  yes,  ever  sighing, 
H     As  winds  rock  the  white-crested  waves  of  the 

sea ; 

As  low  moans  the  lulling  winds,  wailing  and  dying, 
So  moans  and  sighs,  dearest,  my  spirit  for  thee. 

Mellow,  o'er  earth's  emerald  bosom  is  growing 
The  faint,  gilding  light  of  the  fast-dying  day  ; 

Soon  will  the  clustering  brilliants  be  throwing 
O'er  the  scene  a  refulgence — a  hallowing  ray. 

Soon  from  her  bright,  azure  dome  will  be  shining, 
And  kissing  the  cloud-rifts,  the  pale,  yellow  moon. 


TO  MARY  .  73 

Enters  my  heart,  Love,  this  beauty — and,  pining 
In  solitude's  vale,  is  my  spirit  alone. 

Sighing  for  thee  while  the  shadows  are  creeping 
And  hiding  the  violet's  blue,  perfumed  bed ; 

Darling,  I  know  these  sweet  flowers  are  weeping 
With  me  o'er  the  hopes  that  forever  are  dead. 

"  Life's  dearest  band  is  forever  untwining  !  " 
On  care's  stormy  wings  will  our  joys  ever  flee ; 

Sighs  thro'  the  storm  the  torn  flower  for  the  shining 
Of  rays  that  will  warm  it — so  I  sigh  for  thee. 

Sighing  for  thee,  Love  ;  ah,  yes !  ever  sighing — 

A  poor,  wounded,  broken-winged  bird,  without  thee ; 

As  low  moans  the  lulling  wind,  wailing  and  dying, 
Forever,  Love,  wailing  my  spirit  shall  be. 


TO  MARY 


[On  being  laughingly  asked  to  write  her  "  a  node."] 

NODE,"  you  beg, — what  could  I  ever  say, 

My  blithesome  Mary,  unassailed  as  yet 
By  aught  but  joy  ?     A  long  and  plaintive  lay 
Would  not  with  patience,  I  am  sure,  be  met. 

And  sure  my  Muse  seems  sad  or  vexed  to-day — 
The  strain  my  lyre  'wakes  would  please  you  not ; 


74  ALL  IS  DREARY  NOW. 

'Twould  send  perhaps  some  bright  dream  from  your 

way, 
Or  cause  some  joyous  air  to  be  forgot. 

Then  ask  me  not  to  sing,  my  bonny  May; 

Perpetual  sunshine  fills  your  happy  heart; 
I  would  not  chase  its  brightness  all  away, 

Or  cause  one  sweet,  glad  echo  to  depart. 

Bright  joys  beat  back  the  shadows  near  your  way, 
Leaving  sweet  pictures  on  your  sunny  heart ; 

I  dare  not  chase  their  brightness  all  away, 
Or  cause  a  sweet,  glad  echo  to  depart. 


ALL  IS  DREARY  NOW. 

The  following  simple  rhyme  was  written  at  eight  years  of  age.  The  sad 
style  pervading  the  book,  to  which  some  may  object,  it  will  be  seen,  is  not 
tinctured  with  the  slightest  shade  of  affectation. 

|LL  is  dark  and  dreary  now 
Since  all  I  love  has  gone; 
Even  to  the  dear  old  cow 
We  used  to  milk  at  morn. 

Once  I  was  a  happy  child, 

As  sprightly  as  the  fawn ; 
Once  I  had  a  mother  mild — 

But  now  she's  dead  and  gone. 


"SS  IT  A   SIN  TO  LOVE   THEE?"  75 

Even  to  my  school-mates  dear, 

Have  all  gone  one  by  one ; 
Now  I'm  left  alone  and  drear, 

Until  my  life  is  done. 


"IS  IT  A  SIN  TO  LOVE  THEE?" 

I  have  a  friend  who  has  vainly  endeavored  to  recall  the  words  of  a 
favorite  ballad,  "  Is  it  a  sin  to  love  thee?"  I  have  hastily  penned  these 
verses.  Though  far  less  beautiful  than  the  original,  will  he  sometimes  sing 
them? 

| H  is  it  a  sin  to  love  thee? 

Then  my  soul  is  steeped  in  sin — 
And  despair's  dark  waves  roll  o'er  me 
As  I  feel  "  it  might  have  been." 

And  I  feel  my  pulses  quicken 

As  that  yielding  form  I  press, 
But  I  pray,  e'en  while  I'm  gazing 

In  those  eyes,  to  love  thee  less. 

Oh,  if  '/«•  a  sin  to  love  thee, 
Then  why  hast  thou  been  given 

A  spirit  so  divine,  it  breathes — 
Alone  of  love  and  Heaven  f 

As  I  feel  thy  heart  throb  wildly 
And  I  know  its  throbs  are  mine, 


76  "IS  IT  A   SIN  TO  LOVE   THEE?" 

Ev'ry  sigh  from  that  warm  bosom 
Makes  me  thine,  and  only  thine. 

Ah,  to  hear  thy  sighs,  like  zephyrs, 
And  to  feel  thy  sweet  warm  breath 

Stealing  o'er  me  as  I  hold  thee, 
I  would  welcome  even  death. 

Tho'  stern  Fate  has  torn  thee  from  me, 
Still  in  dreams  I  feel  thee  mine — 

That  thou  art  and  ever  shalt  be — 
That  I'm  thine,  forever  thine. 

Oh,  is  it  a  sin  to  love  thee  ? 

Ah,  my  soul  with  passion  fires  I 
Yet  I  feel  that,  as  I  clasp  thee, 

Ev'ry  hope  of  bliss  expires. 

Yes,  it  is  a  sin  to  love  thee ! 

Then,  O  heart,  dare  not  complain — 
Let  thy  grief  and  passion  slumber ; 

It  is  best — we  love  in  vain. 

Yes,  "the  world"  will  sneer  upon  us, 
And  forgive  us  not  the  stain  ; 

It  will  blot  thy  fame  forever, 
I  shall  see  thee  ne'er  again. 

I  care  not  for  idle  praises, 

Or  the  world's  unfeeling  frown — 


LINES.  77 

I  could  give  up  all  Earth's  glory, 
I  could  ev'ry  claim  disown. 

We  must  part !  O  God,  forgive  me, 

That  I  cannot  teach  my  heart 
To  forget— I  still  shall  meet  thee— 

For  in  Heaveti  we'll  never  part. 

Let  me  go  !  Thou'lt  not  forget  me — 

Ah,  I  feel  thee  trembling  now, 
And  I  know  the  cold  dews  dampen, 

With  their  chilling  breath  thy  brow. 

Thou'lt  forget  not  that  sweet  hour 
When  my  soul  to  thee  was  given ; 

We  can  wait  with  "  patient  sorrow  " — 
Thou  wilt  yet  be  mine  in  Heaven. 


LINES 

On  receiving  a  picture  from  a  lady  in  Augusta,  Ga.,   whom   I  had 
never  seen. 

|Y  heart  knows  not  a  language,  Ruthie,  sweet, 

Enough  to  bless  thee  for  the  gift  I  hold — 
I  feel  that  friendship's  far  more  than  "  a  name," 
E'en  tho'  the  hearts  we  worship  oft  grow  cold. 

Such  acts  warm  all  our  feelings  into  life, 
And  call  out  odors  sweet,  of  faith  and  trust ; 


;3  LINES. 

They  gently  dry  the  gushing  tears  of  pain, 
And  trample  vaunting  pride  into  the  dust. 

Earth  seems  to  me  more  full  of  upright  hearts, 

Since  I  that  sinless  bosom  freely  trust ; 
It  seems  to  lend  far  brighter  rays  to  guide 

Thro'  darkness,  to  the  mansions  of  the  just. 

My  unknown  Friend,  a  casket  "violet  gemmed," 
And  "pearled  with  dews."  may  earth  for  thee  e'er 

be- 
No  stormy  winter  tell  of  cold  neglect, 

But  hearts  beat  tender,  warm,  and  true  for  thee. 

But,  Ruth,  if  cruel  tempest  should  arise, 

And  wintry  winds  around  thy  bright  head  moan, 

Trust  that  an  angel's  wing  is  ever  spread, 

'Twixt  thee  and  anguish — thou'lt  be  not  alone. 

It  seems  the  daisies,  blooming  at  my  feet, 
Wet  with  the  dews  that  sparkle  in  the  sun, 

Smile  on  me,  yet  the  tear-drops  on  their  cheek 
Tell  of  some  blighting  trouble  just  begun. 

We  all  are  made  for  interrupted  joy — 

For  sunshine  only  would  soon  parch  the  heart, 

The  flowerets  need  and  love  the  dark'ning  storm — 
Meet  trouble  nobly,  and  'twill  soon  depart. 


LINES.  79 

LINES 

To  the  Memory  of  Mrs.  S.  L.  V. 

|  AD,  sad  on  my  heart  falls  the  thought  of  the 

past, 

Dim  thoughts  that  are  borne  in  the  night-time  to  me  ; 
O  low,  wailing  wind  !  whisper  faintly  her  name  ! 
O  sad,  burdened  heart !  ask  again,  Where  is  she  ? 

The  winds  chill  my  bosom !    my  thoughts  chill  my 

soul! 
The  shadows  have   gathered !    the  gloom  round  my 

heart 

Makes  bleak  winter-time  of  a  thoughtless  young  life — 
The  past  comes  before  me,  and  will  not  depart. 

Her  pure  feet  are  laved  now  in  Jordan's  swift  tide ; 
She  sweeps  in  her  beauteous  robes  through  the  throng ; 
She's  freed  from  all  stain,  she  is  crowned  by  our  Lord ; 
Her  voice  echoes  faintly  the  angels'  sweet  song. 

Sweet  Friend  of  my  girlhood,  bright  Seraph  of  Heav'n, 
My  bark  is  still  sailing  on  Life's  stormy  sea ; 
You'll  watch  for  me,  darling,  on  bright,  unseen  shores ; 
As  I  cross  the  cold  stream,  oh,  beckon  to  me  ! 


8o  NEARER  HOME. 


NEARER  HOME. 

JHE  solemn  thought  steals  sweetly  o'er  my  soul 
Like  ocean-waves  that  o'er  the  lone  rock  roll 
That,  though  I  tread  the  cruel  flints  unshod — 
The  way  is  short — I  thank  thee,  O  my  God ! 

What  though  my  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf — 
The  with'ring  stem — the  trembling  flower  whose  brief 
And  fading  life — whose  sear  and  blighted  form 
Is  but  life's  emblem  ? — I  am  nearer  Home ! 

What  though  my  life  is  like  the  lonely  rock 
Which  firmly  stands  to  meet  the  Ocean's  shock  ? 
What  though  upon  its  rugged  bosom  bloom 
No  sweet  wild  flowers  ? — it  needeth  not  perfume. 

Hope,  to  my  lone  heart,  firmly,  wildly  clings, 
Like  sea-moss  to  that  ocean-rock — and  brings 
Back  to  the  heart's  fold  tender  thoughts  that  roam, 
And  guides  my  homeless  feet  still  nearer  Home. 


"  CHIQUITA."  8l 


CHIQUITA." 


After  reading  her  recent  poem,  "  Glorious  things  are  spoken  of  thee, 
O  city  of  God." 

BY  OSSIAN  D.  GORMAN. 


I. 

|HIQUITA,"  fair  enchantress  of  a  land 

That  claims  thee  as  her  own  sweet  child  of 

song, 
Sure  thou  hast  beauty  at  thy  fend  command, 

While  round  thee  her  thought-idyls  willing  throng. 
No  weird  ghoul-shapes  flit  through  thy  gladsome  lays, 

No  shadow  of  a  grief  that  died  in  tears, 
Disturbs  the  sunshine  of  thy  happy  days, 
Or  gloats  upon  the  pathway  of  thy  years. 

II. 

Soft  lead  us  where  the  Jewish  maidens  wept, 

When  they  remembered  Zion,  mount  of  God ; 
Nor,  when  they  by  the  distant  waters  slept, 

Did  they  forget  their  Zion's  sacred  sod. 
Among  the  orient  hills  the  brightest  crown, 

O  Zion,  thou  1     Perched  in  thine  ancient  site, 
Thou  stand'st  to  all  thy  wandering  ones  a  throne, 

Begirt  with  Mercy  and  Truth's  radiant  light. 


82  "  CHIQUITA." 

III. 

Soft  lead  us  by  Siloam's  sparkling  flood, 

Where  maiden's  eyes  have  looked  in  their  own  hue, 
And  on  whose  banks  the  bards  of  Salem  stood, 

To  catch  the  first  wild  wind-notes  as  they  blew. 
E'en  now,  O  Zion,  softly  as  of  yore, 

Blows  ever  breath  of  morning  o'er  thy  hills, 
And  through  thy  mountain-gorges  ever  pour 

Continuous  streams  their  weird  and  lonely  thrills. 

IV. 

Not  "lone  and  desolate"  are  thy  strong  walls. 

"  Much  loveth  God  thy  gates,"  and  "  glorious  things 
Are  spoken  of  thee,"  when  thy  inner  halls 

Are  opened,  and  the  new  hosanna  rings. 
O  Zion  !  Truth  and  Mercy  on  thee  wait ; 
•     Thy  paths  are  holy,  and  lead  up  to  God ; 
While  Faith  and  Hope  are  guarding  every  gate 

That  ushers  pilgrims  on  thy  holy  sod. 
TALBOTTON,  GA.,  February  \(>th,  1870. 


A  PETITION. 


A  PETITION. 


My  little  boy,  six  years  of  age,  brought  me  yesterday  a  "reward  of 
merit "  from  his  teacher,  and  said,  "  Little  Mamma,  keep  my  ticket  for  me, 
and  if  I  ask  God  every  night  to  make  me  good,  I'll  get  another  next  week, 
won't  I?  " 


|H,  Mamma ! "  (and  he  gently  came  and  nestled 

at  my  side) — 
"  Dear  Mamma,  keep  my  ticket,  and  be  very  sure  you 

hide 

It,  please,  where  naughty  fingers  cannot  find  it  to  de 
stroy  " — 

And  his  arms  were  clasped  around  me — my  gentle, 
noble  Boy. 


"  And  Mamma,  little  Mamma  "  (and  his  voice  to  whis 
pers  grew), 

"  If  I'll  be  good  to  Johnnie,  to  my  Papa,  and  to  you, 
If  I'll  <  notice  little  Sister '  and  'member  'bout  my  hat, 
Will  I  get  another  ticket,  say,  Mamma,  just  like  that? 


"And  say  my  'Now  I  lay  me'  very  slow,  and  always 

let 
My  Brother  have  the  nicest  place,  and  kiss  you  'fore  I 

get 


8j  A   PETITION. 

In  my  trundle  near  the  cradle,  where  little  Sister  lies, 
I'll  get  another  ticket  if  I'm  good?    You  know  I  tries.11 


As  I  clasped  him  to  my  bosom,  the  tears  my  eyelids 

wet — 

I  told  my  Boy  of  Jesus,  and  I  bade  him  ne'er  forget 
That  He  loved  good  little  children.     "Pray,  darling, 

while  He's  near  ; 
Ask  Him  to  make  you  '  good,'  my  child ;  He  turns  no 

deaf  ning  ear." 


Father,  I  tremble  often  as  I  meet  these  earnest  eyes, 
Though  the  burden's  sweet,  'tis  heavy — to  nurture  such 

a  prize 
As  this  fair,  pure,  spotless    child,   I  must  pure  and 

spotless  be ; 
Help,  Father,  that  I  bring  it  unpolluted  unto  thee. 

Thou  "who  gavest  to  my  guiding  hand  this  wand'rer" 

to  lead 
Through  paths  that  oft  are  lone  and  dark,  where  feet 

so  often  bleed, 
Bruised  and  pierced  by  cruel  thorns,  oh  leave  me  not 

alone 
To  guide  him  to  those  gates  of  pearl;    Thou  he  must 

lean  upon. 


TO  "CHIQUITA."  85 


TO  "CHIQUITA." 

On  reading  her  last  poem,  inscribed  to  Rev.  Dr.  Wills,  suggested  by 
hearing  him  preach  a  sermon  from  the  following  text:  "Glorious  things 
are  spoken  of  thee,  O  city  of  God !  "  — Ps.  Ixxxvii.  3. 

|  WEET  minstrel,  do  not  deem  it  bold 

That,  hearing,  I  should  answer  thee, 
Whose  magic  lute,  like  strains  of  old, 
Is  sweet  as  David's  harp  to  me. 

Whene'er  my  Muse  is  nestling  near, 

To  me,  sweet  solace  does  it  bring; 
But  often  sheds  a  crystal  tear 

When  I  forbid  that  it  should  sing. 

Since  thou  has  waked  it,  as  it  slept 
Beneath  yon  drooping,  weeping  tree, 

It  leaves  its  sorrows  all  unwept, 
That  it  may  sing  with  me  to  thee. 

When  it  heard  thy  "  song  "  of  praise, 

It  oped  its  timid,  tearful  eye — 
It  turned  on  me  a  wistful  gaze, 

And  then  looked  upward  to  the  sky. 

And  when  I  said  that  it  might  sing, 

It  took  my  harp  off  from  the  tree, 
Then  shook  the  tear-drops  from  its  wing, 

And  sang  with  me  this  song  to  thee. 


86  TO  EPPIE,  OF  MA  CON. 

But  thinking  that  thou  didst  not  hear, 
Perchance,  the  low,  deep-muffled  strain, 

I  now  will,  through  a  Messenger, 
Repeat  the  plaintive  song  again. 


TO   EPPIE,    OF   MACON. 

BY    LEOLA. 

Written  by  my  girlhood's  lovely  friend,  Loula  W.  Kendall,  of  Upson 
County,  Ga.,  whose  absence  in  another  land  prevented  her  attendance  at 
my  marriage.  She  was  then  quite  young,  and  has  since  become  one  of  our 
sweetest  poets. 

WEET  bride  of  innocence  and  love  ! 

The  word  is  spoken  now, 
And  all  yon  twinkling  stars  above 
Repeat  the  solemn  vow. 
Orange-flowers  add  new  beauty 
To  thy  girlish  face  so  fair  ; 
Brightly  gleaming, 
Softly  beaming, 
Eyes  that  never  knew  a  care  ! 

In  thine  ear  kind  friends  are  breathing 

Wishes  that  thy  life  may  be 
Like  the  sunlight,  ever  wreathing 

Earth  with  beauty,  love,  and  glee. 


TO  EPPIE,    OF  MACON.  87 

Hope,  with  starlit  banner,  dances 
Round  and  round  thy  trembling  heart, 

Fears  dispelling, 

Gently  telling 
That  thy  dreams  shall  ne'er  depart. 

Ever  thus  may  hope  enchant  thee 

With  those  blissful  dreams  so  fair, 
Ne'er  may  grief  and  sorrow  haunt  thee, 
Darkly  mingling  with  despair ; 
Happiness,  with  viewless  fingers, 
O'er  thy  heartstrings  wildly  sweep  ; 
Bright  angel-eyes 
From  starry  skies 
Vigils  o'er  thy  spirit  keep. 

Bride  of  Beauty  !  near  thy  side 
Memory  wafts  me,  tho'  away, 
While  snowy  forms  around  thee  glide, 
Wilt  thou  hear  my  simple  lay  ? 

And  oh  !  if  all  my  warmest  wishes, 
Wove  together,  were  a  flower, 
Its  beauteous  light 
Should  grow  more  bright, 
Every  day  and  every  hour ! 

UPSON  COUNTY,  GA.,  1861. 


88  LINES. 


LINES 

On  receiving  an  exquisite  basket  of  flowers  from  Mr.  Theodore  W.  E., 
of  Macon,  Ga. 

|ES,  the  low  South-wind  has  told  me, 

As  it  passed  o'er  the  wakening  earth, 
Of  the  primrose,  stars  and  daisies, 
And  the  blue-eyed  violets'  birth. 

But  my  heart,  so  prone  to  doubting, 

Cared  not  what  the  South-wind  had  seen  ; 

Thought  not  of  the  flow'r-gemmed  meadows, 
Or  the  young  pine's  soft  fringe  of  green. — 

Till,  kind  Friend,  there  comes  a  token, 
Which  awakes  my  heart  to  the  flow'rs  ; 

And  I  know  the  sweet,  glad  Spring-time 
Is  here,  with  its  soul-stirring  hours. 

Darkly  the  rain  and  the  shadows, 
Which  threaten  me  often,  may  fall ; 

Fiercely  the  chill  winds  of  Autumn 
May  scatter  dead  leaves  like  a  pall. 

The  cloud,  the  storm,  and  the  midnight, 
May  chain  me  to  gloom  for  a  while ; 

But  the  mem'ry  of  flowers  and  sunshine 
Will  ever  bring  back  the  glad  smile. 


ONLY  A    TEAR.  89 


ONLY  A  TEAR. 

JXLY  a  tear  !  A  tiny  tear, 

That  glistens  on  the  dark,  fringed  lashes. 
"  Face  joy's  a  costly  mask  to  wear;  " 
'Tis  bought  with  pangs,  oft  with  despair, 
And  tears  lie  hidden  where  it  flashes. 

Yes,  yes,  'tis  but  a  glist'ning  tear, 

That  tells  of  hopeless  love  long  nourished — 
Of  patient  waiting  through  the  drear, 
Dark  days — of  love  that  casts  out  fear, 

And  in  the  light  of  hope  once  flourished. 

Only  a  tear,  that  tells  of  wars 

As  mem'ry's  busy  train  is  making ; 
"  Fate  cannot  part — not  worldly  jars — 
Our  hearts  will  touch  for  mountain-bars  ! " 

Then  came — the  sad  awaking. 

Only  a  tiny  tear — a  moan 

Of  souls  once  led  out  into  beauty ; 
Only  a  bosom  swelling,  lone, 
Forsaken  now — its  world  all  gone; 

And  left — the  clasping  knife  of  duty. 

Only  a  tear — that  this  dark  night 
No  arm  can  fold  in  warm  embraces, 


90  TO  E  .  .  .  . 

Seeds  of  despair,  fast  budding  white  1 
Smiles,  bought  \\i\hpride,  to  make  the  fight, 
And  sent  through  tears  to  suffering  faces. 

Only  a  trembling  tear ! — a  sigh 
The  dread  and  heavy  silence  breaking. 

Are  sighs  and  tears  above  yon  sky  ? 

Ah  !  if  I  only  dared  to  die ! 
His,  yes — but,  oh,  not  God's  forsaking. 

Only  a  tear — to  show  that  still, 

By  pain's  sharp  wedge,  the  heart  is  riven ; 
Only  a  tear  the  sad  eyes  fill — 
In  sweet  obedience  to  His  will — 

'Twill  be  all  love  in  heaven. 


TO  E .... 

|HINE  eyes,  with  cold,  unconscious  rays, 

Return  mine  own  most  ardent  gaze. 
Oh,  can  it  be  thou  dost  not  know 
The  thoughts  which  set  my  soul  aglow? 
So  speechless  are  my  dullard  eyes, 
So  silent  are  my  deep-drawn  sighs, 
That  thou  hast  not  the  skill  to  learn 
The  thoughts  which  in  my  bosom  burn  ? 


SWEET  SUMMER  NIGHT.  91 

As  dimpled  waves,  with  sparkles  bright, 
Dart  back  the  sun's  reflected  light; 
As  sunset  clouds  with  softened  beams 
Reflect  the  day's  most  fondling  gleams ; 
As  flash  for  flash  the  lightnings  play 
'Twixt  two  lone  clouds  at  close  of  day — 
So  let  thine  eyes  send  back  the  fire 
That  tells  my  soul's  most  fond  desire. 


SWEET  SUMMER  NIGHT. 

|  WEET,  purely  sweet,  to  my  sad,  watching  heart, 

Is  a  clear  Summer  night  like  this ; 
When  Zephyrs  so  sly  awake  with  a  start 
The  sleeping  young  Buds  with  a  kiss. 

All  day  they  have  danced  to  melody  sweet — 

To  wild,  touching  music  of  birds, 
Who  have  left  their  dark,  green  woodland  retreat 

To  whisper  and  trill  their  soft  words. 

When  the  Sun's  bright  face  in  the  west  was  lost, 
And  a  shade  o'er  their  charms  was  thrown, 

These  young  Buds  wept  as  tho'  fallen  the  frost 
Of  neglect — and  they  left  alone. 

Now,  while  the  Moon  leans  her  face  on  the  cloud, 
And  waters  starlit  kiss  the  shore, 


92  SWEET  SUMMER  NIGHT. 

In  tears  they  forget,  while  young  heads  are  bow'd, 
The  smiles  that  in  sunshine  they  wove. 

Weep  not  that  the  noon,  bright,  golden,  has  passed — 
Sweet  Flowers — the  musi: — the  dream  ; 

When  morning  light  comes,  bright  sunbeams  will  cast 
O'er  your  heads  a  halo  and  gleam. 

Awake  to  the  breeze,  ye  Flowers  of  June — 

And,  innocent,  startled  young  Bud, 
If  the  Winds  whisper  love — count  it  a  boon — 

Believe,  and  be  drowned  in  the  flood. 

The  whispering  Leaves  a  rival  would  seem, 

As  bending  with  praises  to  tell, 
They  tremble  and  sigh,  "Ah,  Wind,  we  might  deem 

This  your  work — dishonest  ? — ah,  well, 

"  You're  fickle,  we  know — not  shaken  our  trust 

Because  of  your  conduct  to  those 
Who  whisper  soft  words  when  you  say  they  must, 

Who  tremble  and  bend  when  you  choose." 

O  sweet  Summer  night,  in  short  burning  dreams 

Your  warm  life  will  soon  pass  away  ! 
Our  visions  of  love,  of  silver-lit  streams — 

Of  joy — will  depart  with  your  ray. 

But  favoring  airs  and  soft  winds  remain 
When  the  sweet  summer  night  has  fled  ; 


TO  E ,    ON  GAZING  AT  HER  PORTRAIT.  93 

The  loss  we  deplore  is  often  our  gain — 
'Tis  best  when  life's  romance  is  dead. 

The  deep,  mellow  tones  of  Autumn  oft  chill 

The  sad,  cheerless  soul ;    yet  we  find 
In  echoes,  low,  mournful,  accents  that  thrill 

Like  far  distant  bells  on  the  wind. 

Winter,  too,  brings  on  its  white,  frozen  face 

A  smile — in  its  cold  heart  a  lyre, 
Whose  wild  chords,  when  swept,  sweet  music  we  trace 

Its  grandeur  alone  can  inspire. 

Then  weep  not  o'er  clouds  that  darken  life's  way — 

For,  ere  sounds  of  sad  weeping  cease. 
The  gay  laugh  is  heard — the  tears  of  to-day 

To-morrow  may  bring  us  sweet  peace. 


TO   E ,  ON   GAZING   AT   HER  PORTRAIT. 

JHY  that  abstracted,  dreamy  gaze 

That  lures  from  me  thy  gladdening  eye? 
Dost  seek  to  pierce  the  misty  haze 

Of  dim,  untried  futurity  ? 
Oh,  wherefore  art  thou  strangely  changed? 

For  change  of  eye  is  change  of  heart : 
Is  it,  thou  art  so  soon  estranged  ? 
Or  that  thou  nearer  to  me  art  ? 


94     TO  E ,   ON  GAZING  AT  HER  PORTRAIT. 

I  know  the  earth  is  gay  and  bright, 

And  heaven's  cerulean,  cloudless  blue 
May  well  enchain  the  raptured  sight 

To  watch  for  angels  peeping  through  ; 
For  oft,  in  waking  hours  and  dreams, 

The  mild  eyes  of  the  loved  and  lost 
From  heav'n,  in  soft,  immortal  beams, 

Cheer  on  my  soul  when  tempest-tossed, 

I  know  most  human  hearts  are  frail, 

And  shrink  away  at  slightest  touch, 
As  sensitive  as  summer  snail ; 

But  I  have  deemed  thine  not  of  such. 
Has  slander  blackened  o'er  my  name  ? 

Are  others  fairer  in  thine  eyes, 
Or  art  thou  to  me  still  the  same  ? 

Or  fonder  'neath  this  strange  disguise  ? 

Oh,  I  would  fain  thy  secrets  share, 

Thy  spirit's  sorrows  and  delights  ; 
Would  lift  from  thee  each  burdening  care, 

And  aid  thy  spirit's  loftiest  flights ! 
Then  bend  thy  dreamy  eyes  to  mine, 

And  let  them  beam  as  in  the  past  : 
Fain  would  I  have  their  lights  so  shine 

While  immortality  shall  last ! 


TO   CHIQUITA.  95 


TO    CHIQUITA. 


|HEN  I  gaze  on  thy  beautiful  young  face, 

My  heart  is  grieved  that  I  cannot  retrace 
The  years  of  Life's  sad  voyage  till  I  stand 
Beside  thee  on  the  shore  of  Youth's  bright  land; 
Then  would  I  clasp  thy  hand,  and  beg  to  be 
Thy  chosen  pilot  o'er  Life's  dark,  rough  sea. 
But  now  I  only  stand  and  gaze  far  back 
Upon  the  wrecks  along  the  foamy  track — 
Too  far  before  thee  to  be  overtaken, 
Voyaging  alone,  half-shipwrecked,  quite  forsaken. 

II. 

I  am.  a  bubble  on  Life's  turbid  tide  : 

Far,  far  behind  me,  on  the  mountain-side, 

The  sparkle  of  thy  gladsome  wave  I  see 

Dash  onward  in  its  crystal  purity ; 

But  ere  thou  reach'st  this  spot,  I  shall  be  swept 

Into  the  tideless  sea,  where  all  is  kept 

That  time  bequeaths  unto  Eternity. 

Alas  !  thou  canst  not  course  the  stream  with  me  \ 

Would  we,  as  streamlets  on  the  mountain-side, 

Had  met  and  mingled,  never  to  divide  ! 


96  TO   CHIQUITA. 

III. 

I  am  a  waning  cloud,  which  disappears 

Behind  the  dark  horizon  of  the  years  ; 

Thou,  bright  and  beautiful  as  love's  young  dream, 

Sail'st  up,  bedecked  in  morning's  roseate  beam, 

Into  the  high  aerial  arch  of  life, 

A  splendor  o'er  the  darkness  of  Earth's  strife; 

But  as  thou  comest  up  with  glory  bright, 

I  sink  behind  th'  horizon's  dreamless  night. 

Alas !  that  my  life's  vapor  were  not  given 

To  float  with  thine  thro"  all  life's  azure  heaven  ! 


rv. 

I  am  yon  little  star  that  in  the  west 
Drops  down  at  dawn  upon  the  Night's  dead  breast ; 
Thou,  bright  Aurora,  flushing  eastern  skies, 
Lighting  both  earth  and  heaven  with  glorious  dyes, 
Thy  day's  grand  march  of  genius  just  begun, 
Proud  daughter  of  the  bright,  life-giving  sun  ! 
O  that  my  day's  life -march  had  been  with  thine  ! 
Lost  in  thy  light,  though  not  my  lot  to  shine, 
Companion  of  thy  course,  I  had  been  blest 
Unseen,  borne  thro'  the  skies  on  thy  bright  breast. 

v. 

O  Bark  of  beauty !  Wavelet  of  delight  1 

Bright  Vapor !  gorgeous  morning's  heavenly  Sprite ! 


OUR  DEAD.  97 

On,  on !    Most  glorious  be  thy  bright  career 
Throughout  the  realm  of  Fame's  resplendent  sphere  ! 
I  know  that  I  am  naught — feel  that  I  must 
Soon  sink  back  to  my  nothingness  of  dust : 
But  wilt  thou  not  one  instant  o'er  the  dead 
Pause,  and  behold  the  clod  that  hides  my  head  ? 
Then  utterly  forgot  shall  be  my  name, 
While  thine  shall  live  as  long  as  Time  and  Fame  ! 

GEORGIA,  April,  1870. 


OUR  DEAD. 

| HE  sun  is  sinking,  sinking  low,  adown  the  crim 
son  west ; 
The  breeze  is  softly   whispering   that   the  beauteous 

Night  is  near ; 
And  Nature's  heart  is   trembling,    as   young   Night's 

dark  feet  are  prest 

'Gainst  meadow-sweets  and  violets  that  hide  their  heads 
in  fear. 

As   'gainst   my  lonely  window-sill    I    lean   my  weary 

head, 
And  think  upon  "  the  Land  we  love,"  our  sorrow,  woe, 

and  pain, 
9 


9<?  OUR  DEAD. 

Our  shattered  hopes — our  nameless  graves — our  noble, 

gallant  dead, 
It  seems  that  ev'ry  passion  cf  my  soul,  save  griefs,  were 

slain. 

Yon  "  grave  without  a  monument "  rebukes  despair  and 

hate — 
I  know  that  God  is  merciful,  and  pain  no  brave  heart 

fears, 
Yet  I  long  to  clasp  the  loving  hands  torn  from  us  by 

Fate— 
My  soul  is  filled  with  bitterness,  my  eyes  are  filled  with 

tears. 

O  Father !  teach  submission  to  this  restless,  throb 
bing  heart ; 

Have  pity  and  compassion,  Lord,  for  we  are  sore  dis 
tressed  ; 

Strip  off  this  robe  of  unbelief,  and  bid  our  grief  depart ; 

Still  love  our  poor,  our  blighted  Land,  and  place  us 
'mong  the  blest. 

Thou  art  our  Shield,  our  great  Reward,  our  Light,  our 

Life,  our  Way ! 
Thou'st  bidden  Hagar  "have  no  fear,"  for  Thou  hadst 

heard  her  pray'r — 

We're  wanderers  in  a  wilderness,  yet  waiting  to  obey 
Thy  slightest  word,  for,  Lord,  we  know  how  sweet  Thy 

teachings  are. 


BURLINGTON.  99 


BURLINGTON. 

[Written  on  a  friend's  envelope  one  evening,  whilst  conversing  with  him.] 

BURLINGTON,  Burlington,  city  of  song, 

I  adore  thy  fair  Queen — say,  can  it  be  wrong? 
Tho1  Mary,  sweet  maiden,  my  love  may  disdain, 
I  love  thy  bright  mem'ries,  fair  Bride  of  Champlain. 

No  skies  can  be  brighter — no  waters  so  blue, 
No  eyes  are  such  diamonds — no  hearts  beat  as  true 
As  those  in  my  "  Venice  " — ah  me  !  when  again 
Shall  I  greet  thy  loved  shores,   fair   Bride   of  Cham- 
plain  ? 

Ye  "angels  of  strangers" — all  ebbing  hopes  stayed 
When  clasped  by  those  hands — all  wishes  obeyed ; 
All  sweetness — all  pleasure — no  shadow  of  pain 
To  grieve  us  when  near  thee,  fair  Bride  of  Champlain  ! 

Those  graces  so  winning,  so  artless,  so  sweet, 
Transfer  all  our  burdens.     Whenever  we  greet 
The  echoes  of  Mary  and  Fannie,  we're  fain 
To  think  thee  a  heaven,  fair  Bride  of  Champlain ! 


ioo  EDDIE  AND  JOHNNIE. 

George,  Mary,  Ab,  Fannie,  dear  Burlington,  all, 
I'll  forget  not  thy  friendships.     Whenever  the  call 
To  wake  on  that  Shore  for  our  loss  or  our  gain, 
Remembrance  will  glide  to  thy  shores,  O  Champlaln  ! 


TO   MY   DEAR   LITTLE   BOYS,  EDDY   AND 
JOHNNIE. 

|  HE  low,  moaning  winds  thro'  my  lone  window 

come, 

And  the  night  is  all  starless  and  dim ; 
When  the  morning  light  breaks,  will   the  veil   from 

Night's  dome 
Then  be  lifted,  and  joy  reign  supreme  ? 

I  shut  out  the  world  from  my  heart !     What  of  love 

Can  I  feel  for  its  vain  pomp  and  pride? 
Can  I  faint  by  the  wayside,  though  slowly  I  move, 

When  I  live  to  have  you  by  my  side  ? 

My  "  treasures  on  earth,"  o'er  my  poor,  weary  head, 
The  fierce  tempest  may  gather  and  break ; 

But  my  bruised  feet  shall  walk  thro'  the  storm — firmly 

tread 
The  rough  paths  sweet  and  bright  for  your  sake. 


STANZAS   TO   CHIQUITA.  101 


STANZAS   TO   CHIQUITA. 

BY  QU1EN    SABE. 

|H,  lovely  Chiquita, 

'Tis  you  who  are  sweeter, 
Than  all  the  sweet  verses  you  sing ! 
O  bella  Chiquita, 
Love's  true  light  shall  greet  her ; 
While  their  flight  the  sun-eagles  wing. 

Most  lovely  Chiquita ! 

O  where  may  we  meet  her  ? 
Wherever  a  living  heart  loves. 

Mi  bella  Chiquita, 

Thy  tones  are  far  sweeter 
Than  all  the  soft  cooing  of  doves. 

Enchanting  Chiquita, 

Thy  songs  how  replete,  ah ! 
With  life,  love,  and  soothing  repose ; 

O  charming  Chiquita  ! 

Say,  how  shall  we  treat  her? 
We'll  crown  her  with  laurel  and  rose. 


102  TO  MY  GRANDMOTHER. 


TO  MY  GRANDMOTHER— ON  HER  SEVENTY- 
SECOND  BIRTHDAY. 

|H,  years!  ah,  youthful  dreams!  how  fleeting 

To  her  who  nears  the  end  of  life  ! 
Ah,  hopes  !  no  cheating  one  who  reckons 
This  world's  vain  glories  but  a  strife. 

Sweet  Mother,  through  life's  many  shadows, 
Through  paths  of  trials,  toil,  unrest, 

You've  passed  ;  now,  while  our  shadows  deepen, 
Dear  Mother,  you  are  near  His  breast. 

Far  past  the  noontide  of  your  glory — 
Nearing  that  tender,  loving  Friend ; 

Ah,  Mother,  who,  when  thou  hast  left  us, 
Will  He,  in  mercy,  to  us  send  ? 

Deep  sighs  will  come — fast  tears  unbidden 
Drop  on  our  hands  now  clasped  in  prayer ; 

Yet  smile  we  through  our  anguish,  knowing 
In  our  deep  gloom  you  have  no  share. 

Thy  pardon's  sure — O  Mother,  help  us 
To  reach  that  bright,  immortal  shore ; 

Pray  that  our  bark  may  glide  in  safety 

Through  waters  thou  hast  long  passed  o'er  ! 


TO  LEOLA.  103 


TO  LEOLA.* 

jO-DAY,  sweet  Friend,  my  heart  is  beating  time 

To  sad,  sad  melodies  of  long  ago, 
When  life  was  young  and  ev'ry  hope  sublime, 
And  time  flew  by  as  rippling  streamlets  flow. 

No  breath  of  murmur  e'er  escaped  the  heart, 
No  withered  hopes  or  flowers  to  deplore ; 

No  thought  of  parting,  or  desire  to  part, 

No  strife  or  turmoil  in  those  "  days  of  yore." 

But  past  our  childhood's  happy  days  and  hours, 
And  we  a  robe  of  grief  and  sorrow  wear ; 

The  threatening  cloud  above  our  bowed  head  lowers, 
And  we  have  learned  to  shed  the  silent  tear. 

Life  seems  to  us  a  vague,  a  fitful  dream, 
No  sweet,  fresh  joys  to  glad  the  rayless  hour  ; 

The  bright  and  beauteous  sunlight  sends  no  gleam 
To  warm  our  feelings  into  sudden  power. 

Though  hope  is  crushed,  and  youth  has  found  a  grave, 
Our  hearts  must  bear  the  blow,  and  feel  no  ill ; 

We  must  not  o'er  our  shattered  fortune  rave — 
We  yet  can  meekly  "  suffer,  and  be  still." 

*  Written  at  the  close  of  the  war. 


104     TO    THE  MEMORY  OF  GENERAL  COBB. 


LINES  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  GENERAL  COBB. 


[LOW,  loitering  Time, 
Thou  canst  not  cheat  sweet  Memory  of  her  debt ! 
No,  no  ! — her  loving  hand  upon  us  yet 
Is  nestling.     Bleeding  hearts  cannot  forget 
This  thought  sublime. 

Yes,  wounded  hearts, 

Your  dark  and  ruined  home  before  our  eyes 
Forever  is.     The  picture  never  dies ; 
But  in  the  depth  of  saddened  souls  it  lies, 

And  ne'er  departs. 

The  proudest  son, 

The  noblest,  truest  patriot  Georgia  bore, 
Our  country's  sinking  ark  can  guide  no  more ; 
He  stands  a  glowing  vision  on  that  shore — 

His  work  well  done. 

Thou  hast  the  power, 

O  God,  from  out  the  foaming  surge,  the  deep, 
The  mad,  the  bitter  waves  to  lead,  and  keep 
Within  Thy  wings  these  trembling  ones  who  weep 

And  mourn  that  hour. 


LEBANON.  105 

Look  down  upon 

Thy  blighted  ones,  O  Father  God,  to-day, 
And  in  Thy  spirit  clothe  them,  that  they  may 
All  see  Thy  power — all  love  it — Lord,  all  say, 

"Thy  will  be  done!" 

MACON,  GA.,  1870. 


LEBANON ! 

]OST  holy,  sacred  Mount, 

Thy  snow-capped  peaks  and  rocks 
Were  Syria's  pride.     No  fount 

More  pure,  more  clear  unlocks 
Such  generous  store  as  that 
Which  from  thy  bosom  leaped. 

Thy  summit  white  and  chill, 

Immortal  Mount,  gave  joy 
And  health  and  freshened  will 

To  toil-worn  man.     No  boy 
Roamed  through  thy  cedar's  shade, 
And  felt  thy  grandeur  not. 

Cut  from  thy  slopes  the  wood 

Which  formed  that  Temple's  height, 

Whose  matchless  beauty  could 
Make  suffering  faces  bright ; 

Whose  pillars  sunlight  kept 

Like  thee,  where  else  was  drear. 


io6  LEBANON. 

To  see  thee  Moses  prayed, 

Ere  death  his  heart  should  still; 

On  harps  King  David  played 

(Whose  touch  stern  hearts  could  thrill), 

And  sang  thy  praises,  Mount, 

In  soft,  low  melody. 

Sweet  Psalms  are  full  of  thee, 

"  O  woods  of  Lebanon !  " 
Isaiah,  rapturous,  free 

To  sing  thy  beauties,  won 
By  sweet  exalting  strains, 
For  thee  increasing  fame. 

Around  thy  hallowed  form 

Wild  beauties  still  remain ; 
We,  from  the  sea  thy  dome 

Still  gorgeous  view — still  plain 
Thy  ancient  peaks  are  seen 
Near  sands  of  Esdraelon. 


Gone  are  thy  glories  now, 
O  Mount  of  Lebanon, 

Thy  subjects  scattered  bow 
To  other  shrines — upon 

Thy  head  have  curses  come, 

As  on  ours,  Lebanon  ! 


TO    TANGETTA.  107 


TO  TANGETTA. 

JO  dream  of  thee  through  hours  of  sleep, 

To  dream  of  thee  by  day, 
To  wake  from  bliss,  and  vainly  weep 

To  know  thee  far  away  ; 
To  bear  thine  image  in  my  breast 

Where'er  my  footsteps  rove ; 
But  in  thy  presence  to  feel  blest — 
Oh,  is  this  love  ? — oh,  is  it  love? 

I  know  how  vain,  alas !  it  is 

To  worship  at  thy  shrine; 
That  I  can  never  feel  the  bliss 

To  know  that  thou  art  mine  ; 
But  Reason's  voice  will  not  suffice 

This  throbbing  heart  to  move  ; 
Still,  still  for  thee  my  bosom  sighs— 

Oh,  is  this  love? — oh,  is  it  love? 

One  kiss  of  love  from  thy  fond  lips, 

One  love-look  from  thine  eyes, 
Would,  to  my  soul,  far,  far  eclipse 

The  joys  of  Paradise. 


io3  TO   TANGETTA. 

And  that  to  me  can  be  no  heaven, 

In  all  the  realms  above, 
Unless,  near  thine,  my  seat  be  given — 

Oh,  is  this  love  ?     Yes,  yes,  'TIS  love  ! 


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